


Of The Art Of Smoke Rings

by perkynurples



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, And Lots of It, M/M, Pipeweed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 18:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3702183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo and Thorin share a love of smoke rings - once upon a time, that was all they had in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avelera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/gifts).



> The prompt was just that, smoke rings. Basically I took a lot of liberties with a lot of well-loved tropes, and what was originally supposed to be a short drabble, turned into this... monster.
> 
> _“Then they went back, and found Thorin with his feet on the fender smoking a pipe. He was blowing the most enormous smoke-rings, and wherever he told one to go, it went—up the chimney, or behind the clock on the mantelpiece, or under the table, or round and round the ceiling; but wherever it went it was not quick enough to escape Gandalf. Pop! he sent a smaller smoke-ring from his short clay-pipe straight through each one of Thorin’s. Then Gandalf’s smoke-ring would go green and come back to hover over the wizard’s head. He had a cloud of them about him already, and in the dim light it made him look strange and sorcerous. Bilbo stood still and watched—he loved smoke-rings—and then he blushed to think how proud he had been yesterday morning of the smoke-rings he had sent up the wind over The Hill.”_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one at the very beginning.

He remembers his father as if it were yesterday, sitting on the bench with Bag End behind him, much like Bilbo had done just this very morning, blowing the neatest, most beautiful smoke rings – perhaps it's simply Bilbo's mind magnifying any and all memories he has of Bungo, making them seem much grander than they really were, but he's quite certain that _his own_ smoke rings have never quite lived up to his father's. It's a strange thing, almost a tradition as far as he's concerned – a Baggins in front of his home, creating a perfect likeness of its round door out of pipe-smoke, time and time again, watching it flutter away and disappear. It is relaxing, and gratifying in its own way, it really is, and he's sure his father would agree.

Which is why _disgruntled_ doesn't even begin to describe his sullen state of mind when first he witnesses a dwarf attempting the same. And not just any dwarf, no, this is Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of the rowdy, unsanitary, _rude_ bunch that have invaded poor Bilbo's home out of the blue, and much like him, his smoke rings are large, and, and _pompous,_ and in everybody's face, damn him, who even smokes that much inside?

...And _beautiful,_ Bilbo hates to admit. Absolutely exquisitely crafted – the smoke rings, not the dwarf, no, not that Bilbo has been paying much mind to _that._ Whoever he is, and whatever _quest_ they're going on that Bilbo will _most certainly not be accompanying them on,_ one thing can be said for sure – he knows his smoke rings.

Bilbo watches quite transfixed as they ascend to the ceiling, large and strong and solid, almost as if weaved out of silver rather than smoke, and turn there lazily, not particularly keen on dissipating any time soon it seems. The dwarf King's face is like masterfully cut stone, all sharp edges and striking features, and so Bilbo cannot vouch for his observations all that well, but it seems to him that he is rather enjoying himself and his strangely carved pipe.

Bilbo gets lost in that image and his own thoughts for far too long, which is why he startles with a gasp when one of the other dwarves bumps into him as they all make their way to gather in front of the fireplace. The King glances at him, eyes an astonishing and unsettling blue, and Bilbo resorts to a very rude tactic himself, and simply hurries away like a spooked rabbit, flees the odd company and makes to hide in his bedroom.

Even before he reaches it, the dwarves begin singing, a low hum that makes Bilbo's very heart beat faster and his chest swell, and he all but collapses on his bed, an exhausted, befuddled, _exasperated_ pile a hobbit can only be reduced to after feeding excessive numbers of people with little to no time to grab a bite himself. But he listens still – he doesn't think there is a room remote enough in Bag End to hide from that enchanting melody. He does not quite catch all the words, but it is there, a longing and an ache that are completely foreign to him, and yet manage to find their way into his heart, if only for one moment.

And if he dreams that night of mountains never seen, and roads never traveled, and treasures immeasurable, then surely the lack of food and overabundance of inappropriate dwarves is to blame, and besides, no one ever needs to know – he is a Baggins, and Bagginses do _not_ run out of their door to pursue some momentary whims, no matter how taunting.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one on the road.

He doesn't think he's ever been so uncomfortable in his entire life. There is a reason why hobbits are accustomed to walking everywhere, and it has a lot to do with the fact that their soft backsides tend to get very sore very quickly if they spend too much time on horseback. He hasn't slept more than a couple of hours a night ever since they set out, courtesy of snoring and shuffling dwarves _and_ worrying far too much about what manner of wild and evil things might be lurking out there in the dark, and he can't even _remember_ when last he had a proper bath, or at least some alone time to brush his feet.

Still, all of that would have been perfectly manageable were there enough food to go with it – his stomach grumbles unhappily just thinking about it. They eat three times a day, if that, and forgoing the notion of grabbing a snack whenever he pleases is perhaps the most grating part of this _adventure._

All in all, his stomach complains almost constantly, he has sore spots and bruises in places he wouldn't dare mention in civilized company (or in his current company, come to think of it, despite the fact that they are the exact _opposite_ of civilized), and his favorite travel overcoat has more than a few tears and nicks he hasn't had the time to repair.

And yet, Bilbo has been enjoying himself. He wouldn't admit it to anybody, has a difficult time coming to terms with it himself still, and certainly makes a show of being appropriately surly about his misgivings, but there's... there is _something_ to all this. The road. Not knowing where they will set up camp in the evening, not knowing what lies ahead. He has seen places he'd only ever dreamt of, as a much younger hobbit, his fingertips tracing the thin lines of many a map, and not a day comes by that he doesn't wish he had one such map with him, if only to chart their journey, connect the dots, keep an eye on their progress.

On nights like these, he finds peace in watching the stars, because what are they if not a map of their own, perhaps of a world none of them will ever see?

Right now, it is a small blessing that they have not yet entrusted him with keeping watch in the night – he doesn't mind, let them think him incompetent if it means he can sleep peacefully. Or, in this case, tiptoe soundlessly some way away from his companions, and spend some time alone with his pipe and the clear night sky.

“Where are you going, Master hobbit?”

Ah, perhaps if he had been included in the watch roster, he would have remembered that right now is Thorin's turn, and would have attempted to leave the camp in an entirely different direction.

“I was thinking of sitting down for a smoke by myself,” he offers in a much more politely hushed tone than the dwarf had spoken, turning to face him with a nice apologetic grimace all ready to go.

“What's wrong with sitting down for a smoke here, where it is safe?” Thorin says, a hint of mockery Bilbo doesn't appreciate in the slightest.

Almost under his feet, Bombur joins the sounds of the wildlife with a mighty snore, and Bilbo glares.

“I understand your need for a bit of quiet,” the dwarf nods at that, “but I would not have you wander off blindly into danger.”

“Now, if you are suggesting that we hobbits suffer for poor night vision, I consider it my duty to inform you that we build our homes underground much like you, and are thus perfectly capable of navigating the darkness,” Bilbo sputters, still trying to keep his voice down.

“Admirable,” Thorin states deadpan, “I wonder what use that is when even a twisted branch presents mortal danger.”

“Oh, I wasn't aware that tripping twice in one day disqualified me from the ranks of, of normal walking beings who simply happen to be a bit tired,” Bilbo hisses indignantly.

Somewhere nearby, another dwarf, perhaps Ori, complains wordlessly in his sleep, and a unanimous decision is reached, mostly by glowering on Thorin's side, and Bilbo huffs and makes his way to the fire, sitting close by the King.

“There,” he grumbles, “happy? Safe and not tripping over anything or any _one,_ though the intent was there for a moment, believe me.”

“Very kind of you, deciding not to trample my brethren,” Thorin utters, and Bilbo checks to see if that hint of a sense of humor is actually there, or if he was hearing things again.

But the King is nothing if not completely unreadable, he's come to learn already, and regards him with a blank expression, though his features seem softer, made so by the warm glow of the fire perhaps.

Bilbo discovers that his yearning for a good smoke isn't in any way diminished by his presence, and so he simply goes about stuffing his pipe quietly, Thorin returning to his own as well, in something that might almost be called companionable silence.

He wouldn't go so far as to say he's comfortable around the cantankerous dwarf – indeed he much prefers spending time with others, like the cheery Bofur, or the cheeky brothers Fili and Kili, or Bombur, always ready to swap cooking tips – but he's always been of the firm belief that a bit of politeness goes a long way. From what he's observed so far, Thorin spends most of his time withdrawn, plotting the upcoming parts of their journey with Balin and Dwalin, his pony always at the head of the group, his bedroll always a tad isolated from the others, even though it seems to be common courtesy for most of the dwarves to sleep virtually pressed against one another, much like a pack of very cozy, but rather stinky, squirming and _loud_ dogs.

“Oh, see, now that's just plain unfair.”

The words escape him as if they have a mind of their own, and the King quirks an inquisitive eyebrow.

“I beg your pardon?”

“ _That,_ ” Bilbo points an indignant finger at a smoke ring floating away on the soft breeze, almost too good to be true, “is it a dwarvish thing? A point of pride, creating perfect smoke rings? A requirement for royalty?”

The very dim light might be playing tricks on him, but Thorin seems almost amused now.

“Indeed it is,” he says without a hint of joking, and when Bilbo stares at him he merely maintains his immovable visage, like his face is chiseled from marble, until the hobbit relents and scoffs at him, biting down on his own pipe and lighting it.

“You are not so bad yourself, Master Baggins, you should not despair so.”

“Oh, you've been watching me smoke, have you?” Bilbo quips, and it has the entirely unprecedented effect of Thorin's gaze darting away almost as if he's been caught in the act – quite a thing to behold, and Bilbo doesn't expect he will be seeing it ever again.

As it is, he merely hmph's noncommittally and enjoys the first drafts of the sweet smoke of the best of Westfarthing leaf warming his core. He feels almost self-conscious, attempting his first ring in front of Thorin, but it comes out nicely, and he watches it sail away with a huff of satisfaction, only to end up rather disheartened when a much larger, prettier ring chases after it, as if it is looking to devour it whole. He turns to Thorin with a powerful frown, but the dwarf is doing an excellent job of pretending he doesn't see him, staring into the fire calmly and innocently.

Bilbo scowls at him some more, but decides to take action eventually, taking very special care with his next ring, giving it that extra spin and a bit more smoke than his mouth can handle, but he doesn't choke on it quite yet, and is very pleased with his new creation, very pleased indeed.

“Not bad,” Thorin comments, withstanding Bilbo's glare without a hitch as he draws from his pipe, closes his eyes as if he's preparing himself for some momentous task, and sends out the largest, most exquisite ring into the night, Bilbo's mouth forming an _o_ of its own at the sight, but quickly clamping shut when the King looks at him out of the corner of his eye. If he expects to be praised, he's decided to battle the wrong hobbit.

Bilbo looks away and sits up more primly, deciding that if ever there was a time to make his father proud, it's certainly now – he closes his eyes as well, puffs out his cheeks to take in the smoke, inhales... And chokes in a very undignified manner, having miscalculated how much smoke he can actually take, trying his damnedest to disguise the cough as it prickles at his throat and nose alike.

He looks sideways at Thorin, who seems to be perfectly happy with simply observing, the amusement clear in his gaze now.

“Fine,” Bilbo attempts to say, but the second he opens his mouth the coughing overcomes him, and he all but doubles over until he manages to recover.

“Unfair,” he states simply the second he's capable of it, and Thorin's laughter might easily be mistaken for a cough itself, but Bilbo thinks he knows better, and thinks he will cherish that knowledge for some time.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in Rivendell.

Rivendell surpasses his wildest expectations, and as he walks aimlessly, admiring the slender pillars and arched windows, and beautiful greenery and neat walkways, he thinks that maybe it is here where the maps written in the stars have always led. The scent of summer slowly coming to an end is a sweet note here, and everything, all worries and dangers, all discomfort and fear, seems so far away. Soft music can be heard at all times, coming from who knows where, and Bilbo thinks he could get quite lost here, and wouldn't even mind no one coming to find him.

The dwarves have a rather different point of view, some sort of age-old hatred of elves rooted so deep within their hearts that they find it appropriate to complain endlessly about the food they've been given, and utter what he can fairly safely guess are horrendous insults in their native tongue at their hosts, and even use some of the beautifully engraved furniture for kindling. Bilbo can't possibly hope to stop them, and so he leaves them to their own devices, and wanders.

He does not particularly _mean_ to overhear the conversation between Gandalf and lord Elrond, but, well, since he's already there, he might as well listen.

When first he hears the word _dragon_ he is suddenly and sharply reminded of the true purpose of this journey – he's only ever been considering its conclusion as something very, very far away, out of their collective reach, but now...

“It is also dangerous to do nothing,” the wizard's voice echoes, “the throne of Erebor is Thorin's birthright.”

And as if he has been waiting for the mention of his name, Thorin is now standing behind him, looking on with his usual stoic expression, and Bilbo is quite unsure of what to do – should he apologize? Walk away? But then they _are_ kindred spirits when it comes to eavesdropping, it seems – no use in denying that.

“What is it you fear?” Gandalf asks, and the elvish lord is not subtle in his answer in the least: “Have you forgotten? A strain of madness runs deep within that family. His grandfather lost his mind. His father succumbed to the same sickness. Can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall?”

This is the first time Bilbo is hearing anything about any _sicknesses,_ and his curiosity gets the better of him for one moment – he turns to Thorin to ask, find out more, but finds the dwarf with his back to him already, head hung low, almost as if he's just another shadow among the unlit garden alcove he's about to disappear into.

Not really having decided what he's doing, Bilbo follows, quiet as a mouse he's sure, and yet Thorin speaks directly to him, out of the blue, spooking him more than he'd like to admit: “I would thank you not to make assumptions based on what you just heard.”

Bilbo regards him curiously – what assumptions exactly should he be making? – but nods politely, even though Thorin barely pays him any mind. He sits down heavily on the stone steps leading upward to yet another story of the lofty building, cleaning out his pipe slowly but purposefully, then sticking it between his teeth and patting his tunic, grumbling an incomprehensible curse when he doesn't find what he's looking for.

“Oh – here!” Bilbo exclaims, fishing out his tobacco pouch and offering it to Thorin, who glares at it highly suspiciously.

“Oh come on, that's Westfarthing leaf, you can't do much better than that,” Bilbo huffs, and an almost-smile tugs at the dwarf's mouth, and he accepts the pouch.

“Leave something for me, will you?” Bilbo has to scold him a mere moment later, his pipe clearly needing much more fodder than Bilbo's own, and his cheeks redden when Thorin casts him a stern glare, but he withstands it quite well, in his opinion.

“Apologies,” the King mumbles unconvincingly, and Bilbo harrumphs, tending to his own pipe, deciding against all good instincts to sit on the staircase next to Thorin, though maintaining a... safe distance for now.

He closes his eyes and draws in the taste of the tobacco, the air flowing nicely and the sweetness settling on his tongue. He realizes far too soon that his enjoyment won't last long, though, because he doesn't have any matches. But it is Thorin's turn to provide – before Bilbo can realize what's what, he brings a match of his own to his pipe, shielding it with one large hand, and Bilbo is too immersed in the sight at first, his eyes gleaming in the glow, to remember that he has to actually inhale for this to work. Thorin isn't making it any easier by insisting on holding Bilbo's gaze and not letting it go until a good, steady cloud of smoke rises in between them.

“Thank – thank you,” Bilbo stammers, and Thorin doesn't say a word, only lights his own load and inhales deeply, raggedly, closing his eyes and leaning back on his elbow on the staircase as if this is the first time in ages he's allowed himself to relax, and Bilbo could swear that the night gets a degree or two warmer at that very moment.

Laughter and song echoes even up here, and Bilbo wonders for a moment if there isn't somewhere they both should be right now, but then perhaps even the great dwarven King considers this place as relaxing as Bilbo sees it, though he would never admit it, in front of his company _or_ any one of the elves.

“When the dragon came...” he starts out unsteadily, “was that when your grandfather... lost his mind?”

He regrets asking the question the very next second, because Thorin casts him the most piercing of his plethora of intimidating looks, and he's all but ready to apologize, change the topic, anything, but the dwarf simply sighs, his shoulders slumping as if he's giving in.

“No,” he replies somewhat roughly, “the... sickness had appeared before that. I don't wish to speak of it.”

“Oh, yes, no, of course, forgive my curiosity, it tends to get the better of me,” Bilbo babbles.

“Yes, I've noticed,” is Thorin's simple response, not without a hint of kindness in his voice, though.

Silence reigns once more, and Bilbo still has half a mind to stand up and leave, feeling almost as if he's trespassing on a strictly personal moment. But the dwarf seems perfectly content to just sit and gaze blankly into the night, and so Bilbo does the same. He welcomes the change of scenery immensely – no scary unidentifiable noises coming from anywhere, no odd glimmers of what could only be animal eyes reflecting firelight... Though, apparently, even Rivendell has fireflies.

They begin flickering by one of the blooming bushes, the tiniest sparks of bright yellow-green, and Bilbo smiles at them, reminded more strongly than ever before on this journey of his home, sitting on the front porch as the sun slowly sunk under the horizon, and watching these bright little bugs appear like shining beads lacing the shrubbery beyond his fence.

“ _Tanaz'arsir,_ ” Thorin murmurs, and Bilbo startles, almost having forgotten he's still there.

“Pardon me?”

“That's what we call... them,” the dwarf points with his pipe at the flickering swarm, “I forget – what are they called in the common tongue?”

“Fireflies,” Bilbo supplies with a faint smile, “do you not have them where you're from?”

“I grew up inside a mountain kingdom,” Thorin offers a simple explanation, “if you saw something light up in the dark like that, it was cause enough to start retreating, and quickly.”

“I imagine,” Bilbo chuckles, but the dwarf seems quite lost now in reminiscing.

“I remember I saw them first when I was still quite little, when I was finally allowed to go to the upper terraces. I thought they were stars. I think it was Balin who attempted to scare me by swearing that they were in fact the spirits of the dead, or some such thing.”

“If I remember correctly, Men believe that they are bad luck, and lead careless travelers into swamps,” Bilbo offers conversationally, to which the King responds with a raised eyebrow and a wry chuckle of his own.

“Very much like Men, to take something perfectly innocent and create out of it a story to frighten their children with,” he scoffs, and when Bilbo giggles, he seems to retract into himself a bit, as if he's only just realized he's being actually agreeable to be around for once.

“That tobacco of yours is making my teeth stick together,” he grumbles, the least smooth attempt at changing the topic Bilbo thinks he's ever seen.

“It's a bit sweet, I'll admit as much,” he decides to play along, “but I happen to like it. Can't imagine what _mountain-grown_ tobacco tastes like, and I can't say I'm inclined to try.”

“It's far too strong for the likes of you,” Thorin is quick to come up with a tactless rebuttal, but Bilbo merely laughs it off.

“I'd like to see about that. Next time, it's your turn to bring the leaf.”

Thorin glares at him, his expression even less readable than usual for all the smoke lingering about his head, and Bilbo is almost certain he's overstepped _some_ boundaries, probably acted far too familiar and casual, _you're sharing a smoke with a King, Bilbo Baggins, and a rather moody one at that, please do better to remember that next time..._

“Fair enough,” is Thorin's rather surprising resolution, and the _but_ that Bilbo expects simply doesn't come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin smoke at every possible occasion. That's it, that's the fic :D Next up, Beorn's!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one at Beorn's.

He wakes to a warmth and comfort he has not experienced since before he ran out of his door, foolhardy and without the faintest idea of what lay ahead. He shudders still at the memory of the creature on the lake – the heavy humid smell lingers at the back of his throat whenever he thinks about those large pale eyes and the unnatural sounds the creature had made.

But he is safe now, he must remember – they all are. For now. The sight of Thorin facing down the massive pale orc upon his formidable warg seems to be etched onto his eyelids every time he closes his eyes, and much like he doesn't quite remember getting packed and running out of his round green door, leaving home behind, Bilbo can't really recall how he found himself on his feet, drawing his blade and running blindly towards certain death,  and all for... what? What could have possibly convinced him that he had any more of a chance of fending off the enemy than Thorin himself?

All he knows that seeing him there on the ground, helpless and beaten, had stirred something within him, something horrendously,  _ foolishly _ Tookish. He had made a promise to help Thorin mere  _ moments _ before that, and he would not see it diminished so easily.

But all of that is only a lingering nightmare now. When he does peel his eyes open, golden sunlight is pouring in, and he watches as a large bee or two buzz overhead almost lazily, and listens to the distant commotion, his companions no doubt making their merry way through breakfast already.

The delicious smell of honey and something freshly baked spurs him on and up to his feet, and he hurries to join everyone by the unnaturally tall and large table in the very middle of Beorn's barn – its owner is as impressive a sight as he was when they  met him first, though at least now he's not threatening to maul them anymore. He  _ is, _ after all, much nicer when he's not a big hulking bear, Bilbo decides, and offers a smile and a good-morning to him, even though it means having to withstand yet another ' _ little bunny _ ' comment.

It is their second full day at the skinchanger's abode, and much like in the valley of Imladris, Bilbo wishes they didn't have to leave at all. There's food aplenty, and a beautiful vast garden, and many an opportunity for rest, and Bilbo's strength is restored in spades. He can only hope the same can be said for certain others.

Sitting wedged between Bofur and Ori, he watches the leader of their company out of the corner of his eye –  Thorin sits perhaps a bit too stiff, and his open tunic reveals bandages enveloping his torso. His face doesn't hide the damage quite as well, scraps healing only slowly and bruises starting to gain interesting colors, but he looks as proud and strong as ever, leaving Bilbo to wonder how much of that is only a carefully maintained mask.

An agreement has been reached to stay for a couple more days, to recuperate before braving Mirkwood – Gandalf is confident that that particular shortcut will gain them a lot of time, and so it was only a matter of convincing Thorin that there's nothing wrong with just  _ stopping _ to catch their breath. The orc Azog had been a grim reminder of all the unexpected danger that might befall them yet, and they all need to regain their strength as well as some peace of mind.

“ We're goin' swimming later,” Bofur nudges him gently, interrupting his thinking, “wanna join?”

“Oh, in the stream?”

“Aye. Thought it would do everyone good to soak while we have the chance. Can't say I remember when last I was properly clean.”

“You were always grubby, even as a babe,” Bombur notes casually, and Bilbo watches with delight as Bofur reaches to smack him over the back of his head, a mere sign of brotherly affection, he's come to learn.

He's also come to rather like them, he realizes – they are still entirely too loud and all over the place in every way imaginable, and indeed it proves a good idea to keep a safe distance when they do all rush to bathe later that day, as they seem to have a habit of splashing and attempting to drown everything that moves, but as Bilbo sits a little way away, cooling his feet in the water, he comes to the startling discovery that he wishes all the best for them.

Nothing dampens their spirits, and though he was speaking directly to Thorin earlier, promising he would help him reclaim his home, he meant for everyone else to hear as well. They seem so determined, and moreover,  _ dead certain _ that they will reach their goal, it's admirable in a way.

As far as Bilbo is concerned, he thinks he might be able to last a little while longer if only there are more of Beorn's honey cakes involved.

To that effect, he is glad to assist Bombur and Dori with preparing snacks for everyone, rather than bathing himself, no matter how sorely his body requires it – liking the dwarves enough is one thing, baring himself in front of them quite another. He promises himself he will find a quiet moment to slip quickly in and out of the water, before the sun sets, perhaps.

That quickly becomes a necessity, because after a rich lunch and a quick kip, Bilbo awakes to the sounds of sparring, the Princes testing their skills while everyone else looks on, and for all his diplomatic skills, there is no way of talking them out of roping him into drawing out Sting himself.

“This is a bad idea,” Bilbo announces  for about the fifth time, setting his overcoat aside and nervously gaping at Kili's sword, much larger than his, capable of delivering much more damage no doubt.

“I saw you slay a warg  _ and _ an orc, Bilbo,” Fili reminds him playfully, “the only bad idea would be letting you do that again without teaching you how to actually  _ hold _ a sword first.”

Bilbo wants to reply, something properly bitter about rushing blindly into danger, and how he's  _ never _ doing  _ that _ again, but then he sees Thorin, sitting cross-legged in the grass, smiling around his pipe, an amused spark in his eyes, and it takes but a second for the embarrassment to transform into a strange sort of determination.

“Fine,” he sighs, “ but I am announcing  _ right now _ that I will be needing a wash after this, and... and  _ no one _ is to disturb me, are we understood?”

Uproarious laughter is the dwarves' response to that, as well as some remarks Bilbo resolutely pretends he doesn't hear, and even though he can't very well hide the blush that creeps into his cheeks, he still nods to Fili and Kili firmly, and off they go.

Fili is the one in charge of teaching him the moves that he is then supposed to try out on Kili, and by the time Bilbo feels like he  _ might _ possibly be getting the hang of some of it, his curls are sticking to his forehead, drenched with sweat as well as his shirt, and the hilt of Sting is obviously quite set on causing him calluses for life.

The others comment by cheering loudly, and doubting his abilities, albeit kindly, and even chanting in their native language, words that Bilbo doesn't understand, but that make the two Princes laugh and groan in exasperation in equal measure. All in all, it is a rather stressful endeavor, and he's grateful when it's over, honestly, though he does end up feeling a bit proud thanks to Fili's and Kili's praise, no matter that it's  almost definitely only offered out of politeness.

They do keep their promise, however, and Bilbo leaves to enjoy that well-deserved bath all on his lonesome. Not caring for finesse overmuch, he slips into the languidly flowing water in his breeches and shirt, washing that alongside his vest and overcoat, laying everything including himself into the grass to dry in the sharp afternoon sun, and before he knows it, all the hours he  _ hadn't _ slept throughout this journey announce themselves, and he drifts off again, warm and clean and comfortable.

He wakes to the very last rays of sun sneaking in through the low branches of the trees, lengthening their shadows and coloring the sky in rich hues of reds and purples,  and for a moment there, he is back in the Shire, watching the sunset after supper... oh, supper. His stomach grumbles, reminding him that he hasn't eaten in a while, and he sits up, stretching his arms and back, face turned to the sun and a happy sigh escaping his lips,  and gathers his mostly dry garments, hurrying back to the house, not in the least fond of the idea of running into Beorn in his... less kind form.

The ruckus the dwarves are making carries, and Bilbo's arrival at the barn is mostly overlooked – it appears that Fili and Kili have gotten it in their heads that they can play chess with a wizard, and the others are encouraging them by starting some sort of drinking contest. Bilbo snatches a couple of pies for himself, as well as some of the wonderful baked potatoes with mushrooms and cheese, and sets to look for a quiet place to sit down and enjoy it all, when he notices Thorin, sitting outside on the terrace,  his back turned to his companions, seemingly enjoying just gazing into the dark.

Bilbo weighs his options for a bit, but then decides there's no harm in testing the waters, so to speak.

“May I?” he asks, and Thorin looks up at him with so much  _ peace _ in his usually incredibly intense face that Bilbo is quite taken aback.

The King merely nods and gestures to the empty space next to him, and seems perfectly content to do nothing but watch as Bilbo settles there and delves into his dinner with much vigor, and a distinct lack of any regard for manners whatsoever.

“Oh, I'm forry,” Bilbo mumbles, mouth full, when he notices his staring, “would you like some? Terribly rude of me, but I reckon we will be back on the road soon, might as well stuff myself full while I have the chance.”

“Then you are in accord with the rest of us,” Thorin says, glancing over his shoulder to check on the rest of the company, a smile dancing on his lips as his nephews squabble over chess pieces larger than their hands.

“ Gandalf tells me that Mirkwood is... a rather unpleasant place to be,” Bilbo remembers, and Thorin frowns shortly.

“So it is. Always has been, if only for the elves residing there, but if what the other wizard said is true, then I fear there might be greater dangers hiding in there.”

“Wonderful,” Bilbo sighs.

“Don't worry, Master Baggins, we'll be through there before you know it.”

“You are awfully optimistic, if you don't mind me saying,” Bilbo continues his grumbling, but is pleased to discover, through careful sideways glancing, that Thorin is smiling still.

“Perhaps,” the dwarf laughs, a low pleasant rumble, “it does not come to me often, I thought I should enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Fair enough,” Bilbo shrugs, offering a smile of his own, and no more words are spoken until he finishes his meal.

Something has changed between them, he can sense it all too well. He is not by any means knowledgeable on dwarven customs when it comes to public displays of... well, affection, but that abrupt hug he'd received atop the Carrock is something that has stayed with him, the warmth and exhilaration of it – he hasn't dared ask anyone, but the others seemed to think it was perfectly normal, for their King to show his appreciation of Bilbo's... efforts in such a way.  _ I would have doubted me too.  _ He still does, that has not changed, but if Thorin of all people thinks he's done  _ something _ right, then, well, he'll take it.

“Oh, an excellent idea,” he exclaims upon noticing Thorin taking out his pipe to clean it, and the dwarf chuckles.

“Indeed. Is your valiant plan to try out dwarven tobacco still in motion?”

“Ha! It is,  very much so! Give it.”

Thorin laughs some more at his determination, and stuffs his pipe while Bilbo cleans his, offering up his pouch and watching with amused intrigue as Bilbo brings a pinch of the leaf to his nose, smelling cautiously.

“Hmm,” Bilbo comments, not quite as capable of recognizing the scent as he'd like to be, and so, in the name of newfound bravery, he simply stuffs his pipe as well, surprised but not about to protest when Thorin lights it for him.

The first inhale is like setting a fire in his lungs – it's wood and stone and something deep and rich, something that, Bilbo is surprised to discover, reminds him of Thorin's arms around his shoulders, the warmth of him.

“Oh my,” Bilbo manages feebly, his eyes watering and a cough building in his chest, which he attempts to chase away by patting it with his fist.

Thorin seems incredibly pleased with himself, but Bilbo won't give him the satisfaction of backing down – no, there is something to the taste, something he must experience again to make sure, to try and recognize  that heady undercurrent of whatever spice it might be... He closes his eyes, inhaling richly and rolling the smoke on his tongue, getting accustomed to it.

“Mullein,” he exhales happily, pleased to see he still knows his herbs, grinning broadly at Thorin, who for his part seems... preoccupied, a slight frown of some foreign emotion creasing his forehead as he looks at Bilbo, but then he offers a smile of his own, and a nod.

“Well, who would have thought,” Bilbo clicks his tongue, pointing with his pipe to Thorin, “ _ you _ thought I wouldn't be able to handle it, and here it turns out dwarves don't shy away from herbs either.”

“I suppose there is no shortage of things our races don't know about one another,” the King says somewhat enigmatically, pensively, and Bilbo only offers a quirked eyebrow to that.

“Oh, indeed. Though I don't think I'm a proper representative of my race anymore, you see.”

“Is it the sword? Because I assure you, you might still be able to do more damage with your walking stick.”

“Very funny. Hardly my fault I had to come to your rescue long before anyone even thought to teach me the basics.”

Thorin freezes, a ghost of pain and perhaps anger flashing in his eyes, and Bilbo curses his own waggling tongue.

“Sorry,” he sighs, “I did not mean to...”

“ No, you have nothing to apologize for,” Thorin counters uncharacteristically kindly, “I owe you my life.”

Bilbo doesn't think he will be getting used to seeing him like this any time soon, his stern face so open for once, so full of emotion. It's... stunning.

“Well, I was only repaying the favor,” he manages at last, with a lopsided grin, and the dwarf looks on in confusion at first, but then he remembers, the cliff and the unceasing rain, and offers a wry smile of his own.

“Hardly the best show of my character,” he grumbles, and Bilbo can't help it, he bursts into laughter.

“Thorin, you  _ dragged me up from certain death. I  _ was the one who wanted to...”

He decides against finishing that sentence, but the King seems curious.

“What?”

“Leave,” Bilbo peeps quietly, but braves Thorin's gaze head on, “I had half a mind to turn around and go back to Rivendell. I think it was... yes, well, the experience of almost dying shortly before that, you see, and... well. I was all ready to go, in fact, but then there was no floor under our feet anymore, and the rest is, as they say, history.”

Thorin regards him without a hint of emotion in his face now, puffing on his pipe almost absentmindedly, and Bilbo feels truly terrible – turns out he's not quite ready to lose... whatever it is that makes spending time alone with Thorin an actually agreeable experience, rather than an unpleasant undertaking.

“I see,” the dwarf says simply, and when Bilbo opens his mouth to explain himself, he adds, “do you now?”

“Do I what now?”

“Do you still want to leave us?”

Bilbo stares at him a tad incredulously – behind them, the others have started singing, loudly and obnoxiously out of tune in some cases, but it brings a smile to Bilbo's face nevertheless.

“Did you not hear what I said?” he tells Thorin softly, “I made you a promise earlier, and I think I'll be keeping it, if you don't mind.”

The King scrutinizes his face still, as if he's just waiting for Bilbo's conviction to falter,  and feeling the need to dispel the strange tension between them, the hobbit hurries to add: “Besides, I  couldn't possibly leave you alone with all this excellent pipe weed.”

It is the silliest possible thing to say, but it turns out to have just the desired effect – Thorin laughs, if shortly, the crinkles around his eyes the loveliest sight,  and as the rest of the company start using various parts of Beorn's furnishing as musical instruments, the hobbit and the dwarven King sit in silence, their smoke rings released into the warm summer night side by side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly starting to get longer as we go. This is where I start playing around with book and movie canon, mixing the two in terms of timelines, mostly - how long they stayed where, and such.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in the dungeons.

“Thorin?”

“Bilbo, is that you?”

“Yes, yes, it is me,” the hobbit whispers, a smile tugging at his lips quite against his will, “are you alright?”

“Me? Yes, I'm fine, of course. How are the others?”

“Good, all things considered. Complaining incessantly, for the most part. Less hungry now that I've figured out where to steal in the pantries without anyone noticing.”

Thorin's laughter is a hoarse, low sound, and Bilbo is jolted into action, remembering.

“Here – I brought you something. I do confess  it was originally meant for the Elvenking's dogs, but...”

“At this point, I would probably eat the dog,” comes a wry response from behind the bars, and an eager hand wedges itself through them – it is pitch black here where Thorin is kept, so far away from the rest of the company, but Bilbo is glad of it, since he doesn't have to take off the ring as much. Staying out of sight makes him feel infinitely safe, and surely ruining this now just because he gets unfortunately spotted would be a foolish thing to do.

“Oh, by Durin's starlit beard,” Thorin groans, devouring the mutton Bilbo had brought with endless vigor – the hobbit chuckles and nestles himself against the bars, resting his temple on the cool stone of the wall.

“No one speaks?” Thorin demands, still chewing, and Bilbo closes his eyes, letting relief wash over him for one precious moment – the guards only protect the entrance to this pit, rarely coming down here but with the meager rations of food every now and then, and Bilbo has memorized that schedule perfectly, so he knows he is in no danger now.

“Not a word,” he murmurs, “well, except for Bofur maintaining that he's simply on his way to see his deaf granny, and some rather flowery insults from the rest.”

“Good,” Thorin sighs, and Bilbo startles momentarily when a larger, warmer body rests on the other side of the bars, right where Bilbo is sitting – he is almost overwhelmed by the need to reach through and really touch, brush at the dwarf's shoulder or even hold his hand, if only to steady himself, reassure himself that he's really there.

But his breathing, ragged but steady, is enough for now.

“ Oh, I would have forgotten,” he shakes off his drowsiness, “I brought one more thing.”

“ You did?” the dwarf leans in, and Bilbo can  _ hear _ the smile.

“Yes. I found it in one of the pantries, a whole barrel – never took elves for great smokers, mind you, but there you have it.”

“Pipeweed?” Thorin exhales almost reverently.

“Pipeweed,” Bilbo nods, untying the makeshift pouch he'd fashioned out of a found cloth and ordering, “hold this.”

Thorin's hands are dry and warm as they cradle around Bilbo's to take the tobacco off him while he prepares the pipe, also stolen contraband since they'd lost all of theirs in that dreadful forest, and the dwarf inhales deeply, groaning appreciatively.

“Master Baggins, you are a wonder like no other,” he sighs happily, and Bilbo is just glad the darkness hides his blush.

“I thought you might use it. I think it is Old Toby, just like Gandalf smokes.”

“Is it safe to just sit here and light a pipe?” Thorin worries.

“Shouldn't be a problem, the guards aren't coming by until much later,” Bilbo mutters, concentrating on blowing the pipe clean and making sure he doesn't lose the precious few matches he'd secured – the air is stale and humid down here, and he can only hope this silly idea will actually work.

Remembering at the last second that Thorin might in fact ask questions when the light of the match fails to illuminate the one striking it, Bilbo takes the ring off, albeit with some hardship, as if his finger has swollen over the... days, or weeks, he's spent wearing the jewel, and it is now refusing to come off. His temples start throbbing immediately when it is off, and he whimpers, closing his eyes.

“Are you alright?” Thorin asks intently.

“Just fine,” Bilbo dismisses him, “very tired, that is all. Give me the leaf.”

Stuffing the pipe ends up being a joint effort, Bilbo taking the tobacco out of Thorin's hands, and the first time he draws on it, unlit, to let the air through, such bliss washes over him that he almost forgets where he is for a moment. With a bit of fumbling, they even manage to light the damn thing, and a faint glow illuminates the hostile bars for a flicker of a moment. Bilbo draws on it as if it is a lifeline, quite entranced by the embers growing bright orange, the faint hiss and crackle of them the sweetest music to his ears.

He remembers eventually that he does in fact have company, and passes the pipe over into Thorin's eager hands, watching dizzily as the vague contours of his face come into focus for a second. The dwarf inhales sharply and keeps the smoke in for the longest time, then lets it out with the most pleased moan and a hint of cough, and Bilbo is quite entranced, the sweet taste of the leaf lingering in his mouth, making him want for more.

“When we get out of here,” Thorin mumbles, “remind me to award you a medal for this.”

“Getting out of here at all will suffice, I think,” Bilbo chuckles, then, adding quickly, “I'll find a way.”

“I don't doubt that. But still, t ell Balin to start asking questions – just him, no one else,” Thorin commands, his voice a low, pleasant hum to Bilbo's tired ears, “we shall find out what the Elvenking is after. Why he hasn't left his halls all this time.”

“Must be the spiders,” Bilbo murmurs, finding that his tongue is getting a bit tired, slurring over words, as is the rest of him. The heady scent of the smoke settles his nerves and dissipates tension, and he closes his eyes yet again, daring to curl up closer to the bars, closer to to Thorin.

“He has power enough to deal with those, ” the King continues unfazed, “ n o, I'm convinced he knows something he won't share. There is a greater evil brewing somewhere nearby, and I'll be damned if our misfortunes don't have anything to do with it...”

Bilbo dozes off right there and then – it is strange that he should feel safe enough here, of all places, having spent so much time jolting awake at the slightest sound for fear of being discovered, but the  sweet taste of pipeweed in his mouth and lungs, the distant heat of Thorin's body and the steady, calm tone of his voice prove more than enough to lull him to the sleep that's been  eluding him all this time.

He is woken by a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he reaches for it instinctively, jolting awake properly when his fingers brush over the cool metal of one of Thorin's rings.

“Oh, have I...?”

“Fallen asleep, yes, I believe so,” Thorin says quietly, kindly, “you should go now, I won't have you captured after everything you've achieved. Go to Balin.”

“Right... start asking questions, is that what I should tell him?” Bilbo babbles, raking his hand through his hair dizzily.

“Yes. Here,” Thorin's hands find Bilbo's own, and press the pipe and the empty bundle of cloth into them, lingering as the King murmurs, “thank you.”

Bilbo's exhale is almost pained, for he wishes for nothing more than to stay there for good – it is no place to feel as safe and comfortable as he does, but ahead of him lies only the prospect of sneaking through more crooked and hostile corridors, no food and certainly no cozy warmth of the touch of another, no matter how fleeting.

“I'll get us out,” he swears again, steadfast.

“I have faith in you,” Thorin exhales, squeezing his hands lightly.

Before Bilbo can really consider the decision he's making in its entirety, he bends down and presses a kiss on Thorin's knuckles, quick and light, and then stands up and patters away, and if either of their faces betrays the slightest hint of emotion at that small gesture, the impenetrable darkness hides it well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, as you've all probably noticed, this is where I took a lot of liberties with canon, and decided to stick to book!canon in terms of how long they stay in Thranduil's dungeons, and where Thorin is kept. All of that for entirely selfish shipper reasons of course :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in Laketown.

They arrive drenched and cold and smelling of fish, and before the day is over, they are burgling the Laketown armory, only to end up shivering in the snow, facing judgment by the city's Master, and all in all, Bilbo decides when the Men erupt in cheers when things are explained at last, things could have gone considerably worse.

They are showed inside where there are steadily burning hearths and better clothes, and most importantly, _food,_ and though his lungs are rattling and his nose running, Bilbo is soon rather happy again. A celebration is in order, apparently – personally, Bilbo thinks it a bit odd that the people outside seemed to have been one stolen apple away from starving, and yet the Master's tables are overflowing with food, but he says nothing. They won't be staying in this dank, dreary place long, anyway. Their unfortunate stay in Mirkwood has robbed them of precious time, and Durin's Day, their one chance to get inside the mountain, is now upon them.

Their quest is not finished just yet, but still the dwarves find cause to celebrate – surviving up until now is an achievement of its own, after all.

Bilbo joins in only mellowly, perfectly happy to just sit where he is and observe – and if _where he is_ happens to be by Thorin's very side, then he won't be complaining about that either. The King doesn't seem to be one for excessive partying either – a smile plays on his lips as he watches his kin break into song after song, and he drinks aplenty, but he spends most of his time discussing with Balin things that Bilbo would not wish to eavesdrop on, and so he devotes his attention to feeling dry and safe for once, and tracking the movements of any and all plates of the delicious poppy-seed cakes currently in the room.

His mouth is full of just such one of those when Thorin rises from his seat and leaves without an explanation, though he squeezes Bilbo's shoulder as he passes him, unwittingly or no, he will never know.

“Went to check on Kili,” Balin supplies helpfully.

“Oh. Do you think he will be alright?” Bilbo fusses.

“Oin has been taking care of him,” the old dwarf shrugs, “doing his best, no doubt.”

“I do wish we'd had a more comfortable means of transport from Mirkwood, I'm sorry,” Bilbo offers with an apologetic grimace, but Balin merely laughs, patting his shoulder as well.

“Lad, we would have sat there for another century if it weren't for your cunning idea,” he tells the hobbit very earnestly, “all of us have seen much worse. Kili will be fine.”

“If you say so,” Bilbo smiles.

“I do. Say, would you fancy a smoke? I think I might turn in soon, we have quite the day ahead of us tomorrow after all – but I am given to understand that the roof offers quite the view of the mountain.”

“Oh, really? I should like to see that,” Bilbo smiles, and together, they leave all the ruckus behind, and try to navigate their way up the crooked, creaking wooden stairs to find some sort of terrace or balcony.

The City Hall, how the Master had proudly called it, is the tallest building in a city of frail wooden shacks, and its terrace thus overlooks it all. A thick white fog lays low on the water, snuffing out all sound and dimming all light, cold and impenetrable – but their vantage point is above it, and so they can see that the night is in fact astonishingly clear.

Bilbo forgets his pipe and his companion, and simply turns his face up and stares, stares at the brilliant starlit sky, better than in Rivendell, better than at any other point during the journey – it's like someone has taken a big uneven brush and scattered the stars in great smears across the dark canvas of the night. The moon hangs a huge pale orb across the glimmering lake, and next to it, a great shadow, like the darkness itself has decided to devour the sky, its shape difficult to discern from such great distance, but Bilbo feels his heart beating faster nevertheless – the mountain.

“The braziers of Erebor once shone as far as the Long Lake,” Balin speaks softly, and Bilbo looks to see him gazing in the same direction, a faint smile and a weariness in his face that speaks in equal parts of happiness and disbelief, like the old dwarf can't quite accept the fact that they've really gotten this far.

Bilbo can't imagine what it must be like, seeing one's home after such a long time, but he does know one thing – he's glad he's managed to help out, no matter how insubstantially, in getting all of them here.

“I'm sure they will again, in no time,” he offers softly, and Balin chuckles and turns to him, an image of gratitude – he seems quite overwhelmed for a bit, and reaches out and pats Bilbo's shoulder, to which the hobbit merely smiles brighter, not really knowing what else to do.

“Is it really... are there really a thousand chandeliers in there?” he asks somewhat dumbly, remembering some of the dwarves spinning tales of the slumbering kingdom.

“Oh, aye. Thousand _s,_ in fact,” Balin says proudly, “and yet never enough to light the greatest depths. But still, I remember walking through the great halls when I was very, very young, and looking up and thinking, _how can there be so much light here, all trapped in one place? Surely daylight has nothing on this._ When the whole mountain is lit up, I'm sure it must look a gem of its own, from up here.”

“Or a firefly,” Bilbo notes with a smile, and Balin quirks an eyebrow.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, it's just... well. Something that Thorin told me, actually. That there weren't very many fireflies anywhere to be found in Erebor, and that when he finally saw some as a child, you were there to scare him off and tell him they were the... what was it? The-”

“Spirits of the dead, yes,” Balin says quietly, and regards Bilbo with a grimace distantly worried now, before it fades into a smile of his own, “can't believe he still remembers that. And he told you, did he.”

“Oh, yes. That was a long time ago, though, back in Rivendell I think. We sat down for a smoke, saw fireflies, Thorin got to talking... I suppose it's not _that_ long ago, come to think of it, but I must confess, it feels like years since I ran out of my door after you and your ponies, you know.”

Balin inspects him wordlessly for a moment, a frown creasing his forehead, but then he shakes his head and puffs on his pipe, as if deciding on something at last.

“So you've been... _sitting_ _down_ _for a smoke_ with Thorin for quite a while now, yes?” he says, and if Bilbo didn't know better, he'd think he sounds almost cautious.

“Well... yes, I suppose. Every now and then. Is that... oh, is that another dwarven custom I'm not familiar with? Hair braiding, pipe smoking...? Oh dear, I did ask Thorin about the significance of smoke rings once, but back then I thought he was joking, but if I've caused any offense, I apologize, I didn't know, and it's just dratted hard, navigating an entirely different culture, I'm sure you'll agree...-”

By now, Balin has burst into quiet laughter, smoke in great clouds around his head, the moonlight lending his white hair an almost ethereal look, and Bilbo narrows his eyes at him almost indignantly to mask his momentary embarrassment.

“No, I don't think you've offended anyone, lad,” the dwarf says kindly, “exactly the opposite, in fact.”

“Exactly the – what does that _mean?_ ”

Balin cocks an eyebrow expectantly, as if Bilbo is supposed to figure everything out on his own, only making him scowl more.

“Well then, it is a certain comfort that both of you are equally as dense about these matters, I suppose,” he sighs, and Bilbo sputters indignantly, managing to inhale a bit of smoke in the process.

“Well, excuse _me_ for not immediately catching on on the workings of a culture I'd never encountered before! Honestly, you dwarves walk around thinking that the entire world should bend at your will, and...”

“Easy, lad,” Balin is laughing again, “I assure you there's no secret dwarvish tradition in sitting down and smoking a pipe with someone.”

“Then what?” Bilbo exclaims, “what is it? You keep acting like I've committed some great transgression.”

“Not a transgression, no. Thorin certainly doesn't seem to think so.”

“Balin, I'm _begging you,_ speak clearly,” Bilbo groans, “otherwise I fear we might find ourselves right in the middle of some great misunderstanding, not necessarily through anyone's fault. I do quite like you, you know, and I should hate to be cross with you.”

Balin's laughter is a deep rumble, and he regards Bilbo thoughtfully.

“What are your intentions? After the quest, I mean?” he asks at long last.

Bilbo blinks at him blankly for a bit.

“I, uh... well, provided we all come out of this in one piece,” he says slowly, “I think I should like to... well, going back home seems like the most viable option, of course, other than... that is, unless...”

“Unless?”

The old dwarf's eyes are nothing but kind, and Bilbo tilts his head, as if he'll be able to find some clarity in them – he's not entirely sure himself what he's hinting at, or hoping for.

“Nothing,” he decides at last, “nothing.”

“Hmm,” Balin comments, perhaps a bit displeased, if that is even an emotion that can be conveyed through a wordless hum, and continues, vaguely again, “in much the same way you are unfamiliar with our culture, I'm sad to admit I am unfamiliar with yours. And something tells me that you are something... quite special, even among your kin.”

“I'm... well,” Bilbo sighs, not even trying to dispute that, not really.

“So you must forgive me _and_ correct me if I've judged you hastily, and mistakenly. You've proven us all wrong on numerous occasions.”

“...Alright then,” Bilbo frowns, now very much lost in wherever this conversation is heading.

“But still, I'd like to think that in all my years in this world, I've come to recognize certain... signs unfailingly.”

“Signs,” Bilbo repeats dumbly.

“Aye. I've been by Thorin's side since he was a wee child, and to me, reading him comes as easily as reading my favorite book. I'd had my suspicions for some time, which were then confirmed after the battle with Azog, after the eagles carried us to safety. Ever since then, he's been as obvious as they come, but you... I can't quite figure you out, lad.”

“I...” Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it again, words simply not coming – he frowns at Balin some more, utterly confused.

“I don't mean to insinuate anything, and I implore you to stop me if I start sounding out of my mind.”

“Start?” Bilbo lets out before he can stop himself, “honestly, Balin, you could not sound more enigmatic even if you tried. _What exactly_ are you trying to figure out about me?”

“Ah, there you are. I thought I heard familiar voices.”

They both turn to see Thorin making his way from the stairs onto the crooked, narrow, and now suddenly very overcrowded, terrace, and for his part, Balin appears almost disappointed, like he had even more utterly ludicrous things on his mind to tell Bilbo.

“How's Kili?” he asks, and Thorin looks from him to Bilbo, brushing past both and leaning on the railing, exhaling raggedly.

“Fine, hopefully,” he says, entirely unconvincingly in Bilbo's opinion.

“Does Oin have enough herbs?” Balin asks, “Bombur said something about dividing the rations soon...”

“I completely forgot to ask him,” Thorin grunts, and makes to leave again, but Balin stops him quite resolutely.

“No, let me. I'll make sure we're ready before I go to sleep.”

If Thorin means to protest, Balin doesn't let him, disappearing down the stairs surprisingly nimbly, but not before he leaves Bilbo to ponder on a very enigmatic wink. He stares after the dwarf, his bemusement apparently visible even to Thorin.

“Are you quite alright, Master Baggins?” he wants to know.

“I'm... yes, I suppose. I just had a... _very_ confusing conversation with Balin.”

“Oh? What about?” the King asks casually, rummaging in the outer lining of his tunic for something, the sight having Bilbo quite transfixed.

“I don't... You know, I don't believe I can say. Something about... signs? And knowing you since you were a child? And figuring me out? It was all very...”

Throwing his hands up in the air seems to suffice, because Thorin laughs shortly and doesn't press it further.

“Smoke?” he asks instead, finally having found what he's been looking for – an unfamiliar pipe and a tobacco pouch, both of those things currently looking incredibly delicious to Bilbo.

“Oh, I'd – well, yes, I'd love to, but I'm afraid I haven't yet burgled a new pipe for myself, despite my best efforts,” he sighs.

“I don't mind sharing,” Thorin says, “though I feel like I should warn you – this pipeweed is questionable at best, and we might both end up severely disappointed.”

“Well, misery does love company, does it not,” Bilbo quips sourly, which prompts even more laughter – he notes how at ease Thorin looks now, dressed in cleaner clothes and not fighting for his life for once, and glances from him to the mountain. The two will be reunited soon enough, and it fills Bilbo with anticipation, as well as a worry he can't quite pinpoint the source of.

They stand side by side in a pleasant silence, only ever disrupted by a splash of water here and there, and the muffled sounds of glee from downstairs, and Thorin stuffs their pipe meticulously and without any rush whatsoever, eyes focused on that simple task, and Bilbo's on him.

 _So you've been sitting down for a smoke with Thorin for quite a while now, yes?_ , he hears Balin's voice in his head.

“A question,” he starts Thorin out of his peaceful work when he's almost finished, “I asked you this before, but it's been pointed out to me that our... cultures differ so vastly that I might have misconstrued your answer as a joke, or you might have done the very same with my question in the first place. Or, well, you know, I suppose I _was_ joking back then, it's difficult to recall, but I'm not... right now, that is.”

Thorin's eyebrows are arched high, and he looks to Bilbo, more than anything, immensely amused.

“Well?” he nods.

“Well what?”

“You've yet to pose an actual question.”

“Oh, right, yes, question... My question i-is this – is it horribly unusual for a dwarf and a hobbit to sit down and share a smoke on several occasions? Or does it have to do with the fact that you're a King? I just – does it _mean_ anything in particular?”

“What gave you that idea?” Thorin wants to know, mouthing and puffing on the pipe in an infuriatingly distracting way.

“Well, I... Balin. He seemed... _adamant,_ I suppose you could say, that it was out of the ordinary. I mean, I don't expect you'd share this with just anyone, but honestly, I didn't think it was such a big deal.”

“I see,” Thorin says somewhat tensely, “is that what your conversation earlier was about?”

“Uh... maybe? Yes, I suppose. I'm still very confused.”

“I apologize for that. I'd thank Balin to stay out of my business, but he seems to have entirely different ideas about that.”

“ _Your_ business? What does that _mean?_ Honestly, if at least one of you doesn't start making sense _right now..._ ” Bilbo exclaims, somewhat desperately now, and Thorin looks on him almost bewildered for a fleeting moment, before sighing and shaking his head, bending to light the pipe, a small smile in place.

“It's nothing, Master burglar, I assure you. You've not caused any offense, to anyone. You are right about one thing, though,” the King says more clearly now, looking up at Bilbo, the warm orange glow of the lit pipe reflecting in his bright eyes, “I would not sit down for a smoke with just anyone.”

“Oh,” Bilbo peeps.

“You've proven yourself to be a worthy member of the company, as well as... as well as a good and honorable friend. Your wit and courage have been instrumental in getting us this far. Gandalf was right about you, and I should have listened – there is more to you than meets the eye.”

“I... um,” Bilbo blabs helplessly, quite a lot of heat in his cheeks all of a sudden – he clears his throat, then extends his hand to Thorin in a demanding gesture, though he's barely capable of meeting his gaze.

“Give me that.”

The King passes him the pipe with nothing but a smirk, and Bilbo draws on it almost hungrily, to settle his suddenly very scattered mind, daring to glare at Thorin almost suspiciously once the smoke warms his insides – the King is now gazing into the night and far across the lake, looking almost innocent, as if he hasn't just said any of those horribly... _nice_ things.

“Thank you,” Bilbo mumbles, hoping that Thorin won't hear, but that is a fool's hope – he _does_ hear, and chuckles softly.

“No, thank you. What you said today...”

“What? What did I say?” Bilbo wonders, trying to remember which of the many things that have slipped out today might have been the most hilarious one to the King.

“Earlier, in front of the Master, vouching for me and mine. Offering your word, for someone not of your kin. That was generous, and honorable.”

“Oh no, that was...” Bilbo starts fussily, waving him off, but then he _really_ sees Thorin looking at him, unwavering but gentle, and the smoke filling his lungs is suddenly too heady, the words he'd meant to say too clumsy.

“You're welcome,” he murmurs finally, affording himself another drag from the pipe, before blurting out a somewhat unsteady but honest: “I'd do it again. Probably. Even though it honestly looked like they were one step away from tossing us into the lake.”

“Not a noble end to our quest,” Thorin notes dryly, and it's Bilbo's turn to laugh.

“No, not at all.”

They hold each other's gaze, twin smiles and a momentary disregard for everything else, but the spell is an easy one to break – eventually, Bilbo remembers to hand Thorin the pipe, watching his hand as it cradles it, his lips as they close around it, his eyes as they flutter close when he draws on it. He watches, and doubts.

“A question of my own, if you'll allow it,” the King breaks the silence eventually, and Bilbo gazes at him curiously, merely nodding.

“When we reclaim Erebor,” Thorin says, gazing at the dark mass of it ahead as if it's a sure thing, “would you be willing to stay? I, no, _we_ would gladly welcome you. I value your counsel, and I dare say your skills would not be wasted even when we're not in any immediate danger.”

“Oh dear,” Bilbo peeps somewhat feebly, “stay? As in, for good?”

Thorin shrugs, a silly endearing look on him.

“I, uh... oh my, I don't...” Bilbo starts, and somewhere amidst his babbling, the pipe smoke finds its way down his throat the wrong way, and he begins coughing helplessly.

“I assume that would be a no, then,” Thorin chuckles softly, his hand on Bilbo's back, patting, then steadying him as he regains his composure.

“Forgive me. It's not like that, I... It's a very generous offer, it is,” Bilbo hurries to say, still a bit breathless, “but you know I can't... can't accept it.”

Quite unable to withstand his gaze, Bilbo looks from Thorin at the starlit sky ahead, its reflection on the surface of the lake.

“The Shire is my home,” he continues gently, “as much as Erebor is yours. I don't think I have it in my heart to leave it behind for good.”

“I understand,” Thorin nods calmly, “it would be cruel of me to ask you to sacrifice your home.”

Bilbo frowns at him, then laughs lightly, catching him by surprise.

“You dwarves, always acting like everything is either victory or doom.”

“How do you mean?”

“There's always an alternative,” Bilbo grins at Thorin, “I can promise you that I'll visit Erebor, as much as I can. Something tells me that this adventure has ruined me for sitting around and doing nothing for days on end. _But_ ,” he moves the pipe out of Thorin's reach when he demands it, “you'll have to do the same, of course!”

Thorin stares at him quite dumbfounded for a moment, a line of what might be indignation or discontent creasing his brow, but then he laughs as well, short and pleasant.

“A King can't simply leave his kingdom whenever he pleases,” he notes with a smirk.

“Well, that's hardly fair, is it,” Bilbo huffs, then when Thorin still appears very much amused, he turns away and announces very seriously, “a King will have to make do.”

Thorin is silent for a moment and Bilbo doesn't dare look, simply stares ahead, satisfied with their close proximity if nothing else.

“Then it's a promise, Master Baggins,” the dwarf supplies at last, and Bilbo smiles to himself, handing him the pipe at long last, without a word.

Beyond the lake, the mountain awaits.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHH why are confusing conversations so much fun to write, I wonder? Anyway, you guys might have recognized I borrowed some lines out of [this wonderful piece of fanart](http://papermachette.tumblr.com/post/53352900141/been-working-on-this-for-some-time-now-and-i-am-so). It's still one of my absolute favorites, and I was kind of excited when I suddenly find myself including it :')


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where there's no time for smoke breaks.

Hobbits don't do well with cold. Well, they don't do well with dragonfire, either, but no one can blame Bilbo for not considering the eventuality that things might actually get even worse _after_ they got rid of the dragon.

But this is, most certainly, worse. _So much_ worse.

Their lives aren't in any immediate danger, and the quest is, for all intents and purposes, finished, the mountain stands reclaimed, and yet, no one acts it. No celebration, no joy, no song – not anymore.

They never had any time to acknowledge their victory, anyway – Bilbo followed Smaug out of the mountain first, the others quickly joining him, and together, they watched Laketown fall, a horror of flames coloring the sky and the water alike a bright orange, Smaug reducing the city of Men to splinters, scattering it as easily as if it were built by a child from wooden blocks. They saw the boats with the survivors like an ant line from the fiery chaos to the shore, saw the dragon rise up high for the last time and then fall, and yet there were no cheers, no relief in Bilbo's heart or in the faces of his companions.

They returned to the mountain a sullen bunch, all of them united in the singular need for some food, maybe a bonfire to warm up by, only to find their leader already there, pacing restlessly and demanding they waste no time and begin their search for the Arkenstone – not a hint of worry for his own nephews and Oin with Bofur, all left behind in what was now nothing but a steaming wreck of a town, their fate grim at best.

Bilbo's heart sank, but he said nothing – has said nothing ever since. He wouldn't be able to explain to anyone what exactly led him to keep his mouth shut – Thorin obviously seeks the stone _desperately,_ but... it is something in that desperation that worries Bilbo.

Sounds carry loud and far amidst the tall cold pillars of the halls of Erebor, and everybody seems to flinch at the quietest of them, aside from Thorin. The clinking of the shifting coins as he wades through the hoard of riches is ominous, a warning whisper, and no one is capable of spending as much time there as he is – Bilbo would have thought all dwarves would be equally as enchanted with it, but Thorin's company soon get over their initial joy, and seem more and more wary of it, more and more wary of _the King himself,_ many a tense glance exchanged between them whenever he dispenses new orders, whenever he doesn't come to sit with them for a meal, whenever his voice echoes through the halls, sending them harshly back to their feet and to their miserable duty.

Bilbo wonders if the Arkenstone should have ever been found at all.

“You should eat,” he tells Thorin that night (or day? afternoon? it is becoming difficult to tell) – to top it all off, he's been promoted from burglar to unofficial caretaker, and if someone had told him not a year ago that he'd be following a dwarven King around and forcing sustenance into him, most likely he would have never run out of his door in the first place. Certainly not so quickly.

The dwarf ignores him, moving past him with a cold resolve, one miniscule portion of the hoard inspected, a mountainful still awaiting, and Bilbo sighs a long-suffering sigh, following him with the bowl of Bombur's broth outstretched like some sort of bait.

“Honestly, Thorin, it's been far too long. You haven't eat in... well, four meals. It's hard to keep track time-wise, so I'm using meals... _Anyway,_ I do think it's very unhealthy, and this isn't half bad, really, just try it?”

“Dwarves can go days without food,” Thorin utters tersely, determined footsteps echoing high, high up above their heads as they move down the walkway into another part of the enormous chamber.

“Oh, can they? Well, that doesn't mean they _should,_ really. _Hobbits_ on the other hand know just how important food is, at any given time of the day, and just because you don't _feel_ hunger doesn't mean you shouldn't... Thorin?”

Without a warning, Thorin turns a sharp right and hurries down the stairs, the hoard spilling like a growth of particularly persistent weeds into a derelict alcove, the remnants of some sort of statue drowning in the gold and overseeing everything with somber majesty.

“Thorin, what is it?” Bilbo calls after him, his throat suddenly tight.

“There!” the dwarf calls, his voice alive with excitement, “can you see it? There it is!”

Bilbo squints to see whatever he might be talking about. Is that...? Oh.

Up by the statue's pedestal, a faint glimmer dances across the coins, possibly a reflection of the torchlight, but some particularly shiny trinkets must lay there, because it almost looks like...

“It's not there,” Bilbo exhales quietly, too quietly for Thorin to hear – he would pay him no mind even if he did.

He scales the hoard, coins sliding from under his feet, his climb hasty and clumsy, and he sinks to his knees, burying his hands in the treasure and digging, clawing at it, sending heavy goblets and delicate necklaces and chunky gems skittering and clanking down the hoard.

“There it is – it was right here! I saw it!” he repeats feverishly, and Bilbo watches silently and with a great unease, gripping the now cooling bowl of broth entirely too tight.

“Where is it?” the King growls, “it was right here, where is it?!”

“Thorin, it was... it was probably just a trick of light, I think...” Bilbo tries feebly, taking a few tentative steps closer – something about the vision of Thorin on his knees, hunched over and shoveling through the gold in his desperate and misguided search stirs some very primal fear inside him, something to do with deep dark damp caverns, and another creature searching for its belongings with equal desperation...

No. He shuts his eyes tight for a moment, inhaling deeply, resolutely forcing that comparison out of his mind.

“Thorin!” he calls next, much louder, much sharper, but still surprised when the King does actually stop and look at him, his face pale, a ferocious, bewildered look to his eyes.

“It's not there,” Bilbo continues steadily, his voice almost unwavering, “it was probably just... just a trick of light, I'm sorry to say.”

Thorin opens his mouth, gaze darting from him to the gold, and back to him, and Bilbo thinks he might shout at him, or resume his search, or storm off, but then he simply raises his hands, looking at them as if he's seeing them for the first time, slowly clenching them into fists. He gets up, slow and somehow laborious, and Bilbo stands frozen as he walks back to him, his movements stiffer, as if he's aged a decade just now.

“I must find it,” he exhales when he stands at less than an arm's length from Bilbo, quiet, tired, and yet still somehow menacing, “I need it.”

“I – I know. But if you're to have any hopes of achieving that,” Bilbo stammers, stepping closer and extending his hands and the bowl to him, “you must eat. At least every once in a while. Just a little bit.”

Thorin inspects him warily, almost suspiciously, but then his expression softens, opens up, and Bilbo feels a tad overwhelmed, faced with that.

“Here,” he murmurs, hanging his head and watching instead as Thorin's hands rise almost tentatively to take the bowl from him, but stop, linger around Bilbo's own, rough and warm – he notices a number of little nicks and scrapes on Thorin's knuckles, no doubt a result of his unceasing search, and his chest constricts.

“I don't think that...” he starts, but before he can finish, the King takes the bowl from him, eating while he marches forth, Bilbo barely keeping up with him once again.

“There are caverns beneath the main vault, deep down,” he mutters, more to himself than for Bilbo to hear, chewing only an afterthought, “I wouldn't be surprised if there had been a cave-in at some point at some point. We should investigate. Yes, we'll go down there, maybe that's where it is...”

“Wouldn't that be dangerous?” Bilbo remarks quietly, but Thorin pays him absolutely no mind.

“Or perhaps the lower floors have collapsed, perhaps one of the libraries... No, no, those walls would withstand an age... Then where? Where can it be? We have to search everything, we have to find it...”

“Thorin,” Bilbo interjects, and the dwarf snaps to look at him, his eyes cold and distant again, as if he's completely forgotten that Bilbo is still there – it passes quickly enough, but still Bilbo knows he has very little hope of getting through to him like this.

“This mountain is enormous,” he says softly, “it – it could be anywhere.”

“We _must_ find it,” Thorin hisses, “we have to search everywhere.”

“Yes, well, while that is true, we can't exactly search everywhere _right now,_ can we,” Bilbo babbles quickly, “come now, let's go back to the others, sit down for just a while. The – the Arkenstone isn't going anywhere.”

Thorin glares at him now, a foreign gleam to his narrowed eyes, his features painted sharper by the deep dark shadows everywhere around them, and for a moment, Bilbo thinks he _knows_ , somehow, just by looking.

But he's nothing if not reckless, apparently, and he reaches out and touches, his much smaller fingers prying the quickly emptied bowl out of Thorin's grasp very gently and slowly, some part of Bilbo still worried he might snap and do... something.

“Come back with me,” he tells the King with a faint smile, “I believe Balin has found some very-well preserved pipeweed in his old quarters, and I think a good smoke would only improve matters, don't you?”

Thorin merely stares, lips moving almost imperceptibly as if he's repeating Bilbo's words to himself, and Bilbo dares nurse some hope...

“The others aren't searching?”

“Wh – um, what?”

“The others,” Thorin repeats, suddenly looming over Bilbo, making him feel very small and very, _very_ defenseless, “are they not searching when I ordered them to?”

“No, well, they, I mean, everybody needs a break every now and then, yes?” Bilbo stammers, taking an inadvertent step back, “even – even you.”

Thorin inspects him with a very unnerving intensity, and is it just Bilbo, or does the dim glow of the distant torches lend his skin a very pale, sickly quality?

“No,” the King decides at last, a hoarse exhale that chills Bilbo more than all the stale cold air in the mountain, “there is no time for _breaks._ There is no time for smoking _pipes._ Get back to the others, tell them to return to work immediately.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and walks away, the darkness of the hallway swallowing him, leaving Bilbo alone, dumbfounded, and vaguely afraid, like a tingle on the back of his neck, a warning against an intangible danger approaching.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm yeess a bit of a detour from all the fluff :P


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with no smoke rings.

The leaves of the oak are fluttering in a gentle breeze, and Bilbo has eyes only for it, and for his round green door, clean and solid, as if he's never left, as if it's been waiting for him. The latch of the wooden gate opens seemingly on its own and he hurries past the bench and up the stone steps, eager to just get there, reach out and grab the doorknob, run inside and see all of his old books, sit in his armchair, see how his garden has survived...

He opens the door, a broad swing, his excited laughter joining in a peaceful melody with the murmur of the oak's leaves and the hissing whisper of the tall grass... And sees nothing but pitch black, no hallway, no carpet under his feet, neither walls nor ceiling – instead, a wave of sickening cold washes over him, knocking all air out of his lungs, invisible snow pricking at his skin, and he staggers, trips, and falls...

He jolts awake frantically gasping for breath, and he is cold still – shivering in fact, which is not aided in the slightest by his disoriented head throbbing and taking a good long while to figure out where he is.

Blurs of color slowly come into focus, and he sees candles, and a lit hearth, and a table with a chair, and a vague silhouette of someone by it – his eyes aren't doing a very good job of working properly, and neither does his voice, it turns out.

What he hoped to be a careful greeting comes out a hoarse incoherent croak, but it's registered nevertheless, and Bilbo is quite delighted to recognize Bofur, getting up from his spot by the fire and hurrying to his bedside, clutching his hat in his hands and beaming at him, which, if Bilbo looks as horrible as he feels, is really just unnecessarily good manners.

“Hello,” he tries and fails, and the dwarf understands, procuring a cup of water from somewhere – Bilbo gulps it down thirstily, not caring overmuch that it ends up dripping down his chin and soaking the front of his shirt.

“Hello,” he sighs again, much more easily, sinking back into his pillows, “and thank you.”

“You're very welcome,” Bofur grins, “I have to fetch Oin! You're the first one to wake up, and on my watch, too!”

“I'm... am I?” Bilbo mumbles, taking in his surroundings better – he's in a very cozy chamber, or as cozy as dwarven architecture gets, and he notes that it's surprisingly clean. Everything had been so dusty when they first started exploring...

“Is this Erebor?” he asks faintly, and Bofur frowns at him, before huffing a laugh.

“Of course this is Erebor! You poor thing, you must have hit your head harder than we thought.”

“I don't even remember hitting it in the first place, to be honest with you,” Bilbo shrugs, burrowing deeper under the covers and eying the table for any sign of food.

“That's what you get for trying to dash down Ravenhill without knowing the proper paths, you,” Bofur scolds him gently, “well, what _is_ the last thing you remember?”

“I, uh...”

_Thorin beaten and battered, paler than the ice surrounding them, barely alive, and smiling, telling him to go back, to return home, his grip on Bilbo's hand feeble at best and blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he spoke. A terrifying stillness to him, a calm, acceptance. Cold, so cold._

Bilbo's stomach performs a little flip, and he keens feebly, and Bofur leans forth, concerned.

“You don't look good. I'll go find Oin now-”

“No! No, I... The battle. Is it won?”

Bofur stares wordlessly for quite some time, his round honest face very worried, and Bilbo doesn't know if he has it in him to bear the answer.

“For some,” the dwarf says at last, quietly, and Bilbo's stomach continues to disagree with the whole situation.

“Did, um... Did Thorin...” he begins, but is quite incapable of finishing his question, pressing his hand to his mouth and blinking rapidly, a sudden sharp pain rising in his throat.

“Oh, Bilbo, you don't... Don't you remember?”

“Remember what?” Bilbo squeaks.

“Thorin is alive,” Bofur smiles shortly, though it fades quickly, “barely. Oin thinks that if you had not kept him talking... He's alright, Bilbo. Well, _alright_ might be a stretch, he hasn't woken up since, but there's hope still. I'm sorry, oh, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have worried you so!”

“No no no, it's fine,” Bilbo waves his hand feebly, the other one wiping at his eyes furiously, “I suppose you don't have a handkerchief?”

Bofur laughs cheerily, and reaches to pat his arm.

“I'm afraid not. It's alright, Bilbo. The eagles came, and the tide of the battle turned.”

“The eagles,” Bilbo exhales, closing his eyes at long last, “yes, I remember.”

“Azog's wretched armies panicked without him to lead them, and went back underground pretty quickly, I'm happy to say. We found you... Well, let's just say that it's a good thing we found you when we did. If it hadn't been for Gandalf asking the eagles to carry Thorin and the boys down from there...”

“The boys,” Bilbo repeats dizzily, then more urgently, even though he's not entirely sure he wants to know the answer, “are they...?”

“Resting, too. Kili's a bit better off than Fili, he...”

Bofur's voice breaks, and he hangs his head, and Bilbo scrambles to sit up.

“What? What happened to him? I remember...” he starts, and then his stomach remembers as well, Fili dangling off the ledge, small and helpless like a ragdoll in the foul orc's grasp, and he presses his hand to his mouth.

“Well, the elven lass saved his life, or so I'm told,” Bofur shrugs, “if she hadn't come and fired her arrow at the orc when she did, who knows what could have... Well. You were there, not me.”

Bilbo scrunches his eyes shut – he remembers far too well, the arrow coming out of nowhere and burying itself in the flesh of Azog's arm just as he was about to deliver his killing blow, making him stagger backwards and release his grip, and Fili falling, falling...

“Oin says he might never walk again,” Bofur murmurs, wringing the flaps of his hat in his hands, “says it's too soon to tell.”

“Oh,” Bilbo exhales, a small and broken sound, and feels quite desperate – they sit in silence for an excruciating moment, Bilbo doing his very best not to start sniffling like a babe.

“I'm so sorry,” he peeps at last, clutching his blanket and dragging it up to his eyes to dab at the tears stubbornly welling there no matter how strictly he orders them not to,

“None of this was your fault, Bilbo,” Bofur chuckles kindly, patting his shoulder, “we're all very happy you're alright, that's it. No one blames you for... anything.”

He pronounces the last word with particular care, warm brown eyes holding Bilbo's gaze, the real message obvious in them even though the dwarf never says it out loud. Bilbo opens his mouth to protest, but finds he doesn't have it in him, not just yet.

“Bother it all,” he sighs, throwing his arm over his eyes and inhaling deeply, “I still think I could have handled a great deal of things very differently.”

“What's done is done,” Bofur counters softly, “you should get some more rest. I'll go find Oin, and maybe something to eat, what do you say?”

“That would be... yes,” Bilbo sighs, “that would be good, thank you.”

 

_What's done is done._ Once Bilbo gets some sustenance in him, and manages to convince Oin that no, he certainly doesn't feel like  sleeping anymore  and  _can_ correctly count the number of fingers he's shown , he feels much stronger, and much more anxious to see for himself just how much has been  _done._ Bofur becomes his willing guide, and together, they waddle through the mountain, down from the quarters where Bilbo has been recovering – he is told right away that Thorin and the two young Princes lie nearby, but that they can't be visited just yet, and though he won't be declaring that out loud anytime soon, Bilbo finds he's a bit relieved, perhaps. Just a tad.

He could call himself selfish, and silly and a coward, but instead, his attention is soon diverted quite successfully to all that he comes to see – Erebor has come alive. It seems that the remainder of the army of Dain, Thorin's cousin, have moved inside, and started rekindling just about every hearth and chandelier they can get their hands on, cleaning away debris and altogether making what Bilbo remembers to be nothing but dark hostile corridors and hallways seem almost livable.

He is overjoyed to meet with the other members of the company, all in more or less good health save some scraps and a broken limb or three, and they're all happy to see him as well – from Bombur very nearly force-feeding him more of his delicious stew to Ori who is in charge of the restoration of the library and proud to do so, from Nori and Dori arguing incessantly but still somehow managing to negotiate trades with the Lakemen side by side, to Balin and Dwalin helping direct troops... At least here, it really does look like the battle has been won. Bilbo wants to believe it.

“The Men of Dale have suffered the greatest losses,” Balin tells him gravely as they stand side by side, watching Dwalin shout some of Dain's troops in shape, preparing for some sort of expedition deeper into the unexplored parts of the kingdom, “we have been sharing resources, but this winter will be a long one.”

“And the elves?” Bilbo asks absentmindedly, concentrating on clutching his coat tighter around his shoulders.

“Soon to be on their way back to their forest. Their King seems very invested in an alliance with Men, now that they will have a new ruler.”

“Bard?”

“Indeed. We might come out of this on top yet, if we play our cards right,” Balin says, but still manages to look troubled and weary – the battle has left him with a bruised eye and one arm in a sling, and Bilbo notices he's limping slightly, but doesn't mention it.

“Do you think...” he starts unsteadily, “Balin, do you think that...”

He's not entirely sure which one of his numerous questions he really wants to ask, or receive an answer to at all, to be honest, but the old dwarf seems to understand.

“We can't say when Thorin will wake up,” he confesses, “or _if_ he will wake up at all, that is the truth of it. Dain and I have been handling all the negotiations so far, but if Erebor is to be restored, she needs a King, and soon. Our kin from the Blue Mountains are on their way here, Fili and Kili's mother among them, and when they arrive, so will a great deal of questions, and impatience. But for now, Thorin sleeps, and we're doing the best we can.”

Bilbo reciprocates his smile feebly at best.

“And... the Arkenstone?” he asks timidly, and sees a darker shadow cast over Balin's features.

“Hidden safely in the treasury. We were surprised when it was returned to us without... well, without a fuss. To be honest with you, lad, we thought we were going to have to go to war all over again for it, but Bard returned it to us of his own volition. Thorin slaying Azog was no small deed, even in their eyes. The alliance is fragile for now, but it holds.”

Bilbo doesn't know what to think, really. He follows Balin to the nearest makeshift dining room, and eats alongside rowdy dwarves once again, receiving praise even from those he's never seen before, and he feels... small. He remembers holding the Arkenstone in his own hands, hiding it away, resorting to desperate measures in what he thought was the only way to save his friends... Who was he to make that decision? Who is he now, here, in this mountain, a hobbit with a bump on his head  and a silly ring in his pocket? Maybe he should slip it on and disappear from everyone's sight once again, for good. Gather his things and go home. Nobody would miss him, would they.

Nobody is missing him now, sitting on the edge of his bed in the room they've let him stay in, the mithril shirt Thorin had given him folded on his knees, his fingertips stroking the cool smooth metal almost carefully. What has he done to deserve such a gift, anyway?

_A token of our friendship._ He remembers gazing into Thorin's eyes at that moment, and barely recognizing the dwarf he had come to... care for. He remembers wanting nothing more than to find a way to restore Thorin to his former self, even when others told him to keep his distance, to be afraid, to  _run._ He remembers seeing Thorin the next time, after he'd run through an entire battlefield to warn him atop Ravenhill, and thinking  _finally. Finally, there you are. I recognize you again._

He realizes he's trembling again, be it the cold or the distress, and also that he won't be capable of falling asleep any time soon.

“Oh, the fur on my feet for a good smoke,” he sighs, and gets up with a groan – he thinks he's seen some dwarves smoking today near Bombur's makeshift kitchen, and he's almost certain he can find his way down there.

He patters into the hallway, and is pleased to hear at least some distant noises, laughter and chatter, and a rhythmical clang of whatever machinery the dwarves have restored – a place this large shouldn't be as quiet as he remembers it when it was just him and the company roaming its halls.

“Right,” he declares, standing atop a staircase that twists and turns and meanders in at least four different directions – he's generally good with those, directions that is, but he can't for the life of him understand how the dwarves navigate this place. _Or_ manage not to look down and get nauseous when crossing all these bridges, no railing in sight.

He makes a few experimental turns, but the echo of the sounds he's been trying to follow could be coming from virtually anywhere. At least he recognizes... isn't that Balin's old quarters? Bilbo thinks he remembers finding shelter there with the others when they first came here, yes, that's the broad staircase with the statues right there, leading to the treasure vault, is it not, and if he just hurries straight through this hallway past all these (unnervingly) open doors, he'll be sure to find his way down nice and easy...

He startles and almost slips on the polished marble floor when two dwarves back out of a room ahead, one of them carrying a big bowl in his arms, the other one what looks like a pile of bandages or some such thing – Bilbo raises his hand and opens his mouth to say something, but they pay him absolutely no mind, chattering quietly in their tongue and swiftly disappearing into another room, across the hallway.

Bilbo gulps with a sudden unease – something tells him he knows what he might find if he peeks into the room they came from, and it makes him properly nauseous, but he inches closer anyway, some horrible curiosity pushing him forward.

“But I'm telling you I'm fine! My innards are fine! I'm so hungry!”

Bilbo half gasps, half giggles, when he recognizes the voice, and his feet carry him quickly ahead, and he stands in the doorway before his head can catch up with the decision.

“Kili!” he breathes out happily, and two out of the three inhabitants of the room turn to look at him – the youngest Prince lies in bed propped up by numerous pillows, his bare chest bandaged stiffly, and around him fusses Oin. Fili rests by the far side of the wall, almost invisible in the shadows and under his covers, sleeping the dreamless sleep of a very slow healing.

“Bilbo!” the young dwarf exclaims, “you're here!”

He makes to get up, but both his wounds and his healer stop him quite abruptly – he winces in pain as Oin orders harshly: “Don't move, you stubborn child! How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Oh, Kili, I'm so happy to see you in one piece,” Bilbo blabs, hurrying to the bed and hovering despite Oin's incomprehensible grumbling, “are you in much pain?”

“Ah, it's nothing,” the young dwarf offers a confident grin, “but Oin seems to think that if I move _or_ eat anything but soup, my guts will come spilling out through my stitches.”

“Well, that's, uh...” Bilbo peeps feebly, trying very hard not to imagine it actually happening, “probably true. We don't – don't want that to happen. Or at least not while I'm in the room. Please listen to Oin.”

“Yes, yes, alright,” Kili smiles, getting more comfortable in his pillows, “but I miss food, you know? _Real_ food. I feel like I haven't eaten in _months_ , Bilbo, I'm ravenous.”

“You poor thing, maybe I could run down to the kitchens and fetch you something...”

Kili's eyes brighten up, but Oin snuffs that idea out immediately.

“Absolutely not. I'm going across the hall to check on Thorin now, can I trust you two to behave yourselves?”

“Aye,” Kili moans.

“I'll keep an eye on him,” Bilbo nods, and Oin's eyes narrow, but then he shrugs and steers out of the room as well.

“Bilbo, you must tell me everything!” Kili demands once he's gone, “what's happening down there? Have the elves left yet? Have you seen Uncle?”

“I only just woke up today myself,” Bilbo tempers his excitement kindly, “so I have no idea what's going on, I'm afraid. Lord Dain and his troops have moved inside the mountain, and I've seen some Men, too, but no elves. And they told me _you_ were still asleep!”

“I woke up,” Kili says, and somehow manages to look proud, “and I'm _really_ hungry, but Oin won't let me eat anything much at all.”

Only upon looking at him more closely does Bilbo see that he's incredibly pale, his cheeks sunken and hollow, but that doesn't stop his usual excited spark from burning in his eyes. Bilbo suspects he won't last long before exhaustion overpowers him again, but it's very reassuring to see him this lively.

“I'll see about sneaking in something better than soup for you,” he decides, “I am, after all, a burglar.”

That makes the Prince laugh, a great achievement in Bilbo's mind.

“Bring something for Fili, too,” he pleads, “he's going to wake up soon!”

“Is he?” Bilbo mumbles, turning to look at the older of the two – even at this distance, he can see the pallor of sick sweat on his brow, glistening unnaturally in the candlelight, and no matter how hard he tries, he can see no sign of any sort of even breathing.

“Yes! They tell me it's a miracle that he survived that fall, but he's sturdy, we all are. And he's _definitely_ going to be hungry when he wakes up.”

Bilbo admires Kili's boundless optimism, that much is certain – he opens his mouth to share what Bofur had told him, find out if Kili knows, but then he really looks at him, the poorly concealed worry in his eyes, his messy sweat-drenched hair falling into his face, his fingers turning over some sort of a smooth pebble, like a token of some kind, and he realizes just how young the dwarf looks, even underneath all his bruises.

“I'm sure he will be,” Bilbo agrees quietly, “I'll bring you something good, I promise.”

Kili grinning is like watching the sun rise bright and early in the morning, and it manages to cheer Bilbo up at least a little bit.

“Have you been to see Thorin?” he asks Bilbo next, though, effectively ruining whatever good mood might have been coming his way, “they won't tell us how he's doing, and I can't go see him myself, obviously. I'm worried about him. He should be awake for all of this.”

“I... no, I haven't been to see him yet,” Bilbo admits at last.

“Are you going there now? Can you come back after and tell me how he's doing?”

He really is just a child still, in so many ways, Bilbo realizes as Kili holds his gaze intently, awaiting his answer. It breaks his heart, but then he supposes things could have gone much, much worse.

“I promise,” he nods, getting up with some hardship, “you should get some rest now, though. I'll be back the first chance I get, hopefully with some burgled food, too.”

“Thank you,” Kili smiles, and burrows in his sheets like an overgrown puppy, until nothing but his nose and bright eyes are peeking out.

“Sleep tight,” Bilbo winks at him.

 

Once outside the room, he ponders just turning around and going back to bed himself, the taste for a smoke be damned, just hide under his blankets and not come out until his hunger commands him to, for there's no other force that has ever had a stronger sway over him. Well, that's not entirely true though, is it...

Before he can decide one way or the other, the unfamiliar dwarves he'd run into before appear in the hallway once again, and look at him curiously this time, but say nothing. Oin follows them, and he looks troubled at best.

“Oh, there you are. It's alright to go in, if you want,” he gestures to the room behind him.

“I, um...” Bilbo sighs.

“It's quite alright. He's a grim sight, aye, but he's only sleeping.”

Bilbo follows him inside with a distinct agitation, though he couldn't pinpoint where it's coming from if he tried. The first sensation he registers is the strong smell of some sort of healing salve – so strong, in fact, that it almost makes his eyes water, the powerful scent of mint and... pine? Garlic? It's very odd, nothing that he's ever smelled before, and professional curiosity takes the better of him for a bit, wondering how one would go about brewing something like that, but that's only until he finally sees Thorin.

His heart skips a beat, and quite painfully so, too – a small gasp escapes his lips, and his feet suddenly refuse to carry him any further. The dwarf lies deathly still, and seemingly every inch of his skin is covered in bandages, some of them fresh and clean, some of them, like the ones on his chest, all but oozing the mysterious salve.

“The blade went straight through his chest,” Oin comments matter-of-factly, “crushed a lung, only barely missed his heart. He's lucky to be alive, and there's nothing much any of us can do for him, but wait for him to wake up.”

“Will he?” Bilbo asks breathlessly, finally finding enough courage to step closer, his eyes glued to Thorin's face – it has been cleaned of all grime and blood, but is still battered plenty, pale skin covered with a sheen of sweat, dark circles under his eyes, chapped lips slightly apart. Bilbo resists the temptation to lean in closer, just to make sure he's really breathing.

“Can't say yet,” the healer admits simply, “we sit through every night with him, and we've had more than one close call. He's fighting, that's all I know for sure. Dwalin should have been here already, it's his turn tonight I think... Unless, no no, is it Dori? Must be...”

“I can stay with him,” Bilbo peeps thoughtlessly, quite convinced it's nowhere near loud enough for Oin to even register, but apparently he's wrong.

“That's not necessary, lad,” the dwarf says softly, then, more resolutely, “you've barely just woken up yourself, you need to get some rest.”

“I'm fine,” Bilbo murmurs, never tearing his eyes away from Thorin's face.

“You are not _fine._ We'll be more than happy to let you help out, once you get better. Go on, let's get you back to bed-”

“Oin,” Bilbo interrupts him, looking at him with a strange, dull sort of determination, “let me stay, at least until someone shows up, whoever is supposed to anyway.”

He can't say where all of this is coming from, can't really explain the strange sort of longing that might in fact be partly fear – he just knows that walking out of here now and missing but a beat, a single shallow, shuddering breath of who might be a King simply deciding to take some time with dying, is unthinkable. But fortunately, Oin doesn't ask for an explanation – he simply stares, then sighs the sigh of someone who's battled far worse things than a stubborn hobbit, and relents.

“Very well then, have it your way. Have a drink of water every now and then, though,” he points to the pitcher on the nearest table, “otherwise the smell will get right in your head after a while.”

“Alright, I will.”

“I'll still send someone up here to replace you soon. But if you think something is off about him, just give a shout, someone will come running.”

“I will.”

“And Bilbo-”

“Yes.”

“Don't strain yourself. You cannot will him back to life.”

Bilbo has no reply in store for that – in fact, he says absolutely nothing as the dwarf shuffles off, simply makes himself more comfortable on the stool, leaning against the cold, cold wall, and watches the lines of Thorin's face, as if it in fact _can_ will him back to life. His hair has been washed and his braids redone, and his face appears almost unchanged, save for the gash bisecting his forehead above his right eye of course, mostly hidden under a bandage, but the edge of it almost splitting his eyebrow. His eyelashes are dark against the pallor of his skin, and Bilbo wills them to flutter, to rise, for him to see those piercing eyes again, see life return to them even though he himself had seen it leak right out.

A great ache settles in his heart and around his lungs, like a weight he can never shed, and many a time does he open his mouth to say some words he can never quite find – many a time does he consider reaching out and touching, brushing his fingertips across the back of Thorin's hand resting so close, but he always refrains, too afraid.

The astonishingly strong scent of the salve does get into his head, just like Oin had predicted, and even though he drinks dutifully a couple of times, his weariness gets the better of him in the end – he falls asleep huddled up in a very unfortunate position indeed, and this time, he dreams of a starlit sky and the crackling of a bonfire, and rings of smoke chasing one another and disappearing off into the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right so, the idea here is that Tauriel got to Ravenhill early, to shoot Azog just as he was to stab Fili (who still took the fall, hence the worries about his legs not working) and left him weakened for his subsequent fight with Thorin, and also helped save Kili. Deus ex machina ladies are the best right. Right??? (And Bilbo took a tumble as he the eagles carried Thorin and the kids back to the mountain - he mostly just sat there alongside Gandalf looking super grim until Gandalf was like uuuhhh yeah I don't think they're actually.... dead?? upon which Bilbo ran off in much the same way he ran off after them the very first time, only this time he forgot to watch his feet ;u;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one that's the perfect amount of sweet.

If one remembers where the pantries are, and remembers not to look down when crossing this vast open space or that via all those rail-less pathways, dwarven mountain kingdoms are much like hobbit holes, Bilbo finds. Big labyrinthine dwellings underground – of course, you could fit about a thousand Bag Ends down here, but it's the general feeling that matters. Distinctly less nature and wooden paneling, but if one knows where to spend one's time, one can feel almost as cozy as they would back home.

Home. The _actual_ Bag End is now like a dream to Bilbo, a dream he dreamed a long time ago and forgot to wrote down, the details unclear, the colors fading. He has managed to send a letter by raven to the Shire just the other day, addressed to Gaffer Gamgee and mostly detailing the ways in which Bilbo has succeeded at staying alive, and thus remaining the rightful owner of his place – he knows _some people_ far too well to suspect nothing but ill will when it comes to poking their noses into other people's business _and_ cupboards.

He imagines it will cause quite stir, won't it, a raven carrying a letter sealed in wax with an obscure dwarven insignia landing atop one of Gaffer's prized pumpkins, but he can't be bothered about that now. No no, too much work to do.

“Did you know,” he tells Thorin that evening, “Men do not know how to cook a broth to save their lives. And it actually _would,_ you know, save their lives. Honestly, you can work _wonders_ with just potatoes and onions and not much more. My goodness. Didn't think I'd be spending the winter teaching someone twice my size both height and width-wise to cook, but there you have it, that's what I get for trying to be helpful. Freezing my toes off.”

He wriggles them to demonstrate, and drapes his coat tighter around his shoulders.

“It's getting really chilly in this mountain of yours, you know. Even though all the forges and the mines are working again, or so I'm told. The clanking keeps me up something dreadful – Kili says it lulls him to sleep, but I don't think I'm ever getting used to it. How you lot can stand it is beyond me.”

Outside the room, raised voices echo, and Bilbo loses his thread for a moment, turning to look, but shakes his head at it eventually – not every dispute is his to solve, no matter how the dwarves have been treating him.

“Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one with any lick of common sense around here,” he pouts, “did you know your esteemed cousin thought it would be a good idea to let his war... hogs, is that what they're called? Anyway, yes, those pigs of his stay inside the mountain. I mean honestly, can you imagine the _smell?_ Bifur led a dig to the lower floors to see if the stables by the mouth of the river were still functional, but apparently they just found a whole lot of rubble and nothing more. Couple of caved in caverns, I'm given to understand. A dreadful shame, isn't it just?”

Thorin doesn't respond, but then he never does.

“Right then,” Bilbo sniffs, curling up in his chair like a particularly grumpy cat, “do you know what I'm looking forward to, though? Finally getting some _decent_ pipeweed. The kind the Iron Hills dwarves smoke brings tears to my eyes, and not in any sort of good way. It's horrible! But, Westfarthing Leaf is on the way, courtesy of the Elvenking's power. He likes me now, I think. I don't think that would make _you_ very happy, but you know what, he has pipeweed, so I digress. Just... you know. Make – make sure to wake up before I finish it all off. Who knows, he might send a pouch or a barrel, but either way, it won't last me long, so...”

Bilbo's voice dies off, and he simply stares, feeling utterly silly. He scrunches his nose against the sudden burn, be it the ever-present cold or something else, and he glares at his own feet stubbornly for a while.

“What am I thinking?” he murmurs, “talking will hardly bring you back, will it. Oin tells me stories, old dwarven legends about all those songs your ancestors used to sing and how every dwarf can still hear them in their head, more strongly so when you're sleeping, so... Well,” he clears his throat, “I suppose if you can hear me amidst all that chanting, just know that... um. There's good pipeweed headed my way, the best in fact, contrary to what you might believe, and... you do so hate being proven wrong. So should you see fit, now would be a good time to wake up... Oh, bugger it all.”

Overcome by a sudden bitterness that's largely frustration with his own sad self, Bilbo gets up and walks out of the room, leaving behind the heavy scent of healing, and one dwarf sleeping a dreamless sleep.

It's been going on for days now, weeks in fact, and he can't quite remember when he started thinking it would be a good idea to share his feelings out loud. It makes him feel better somehow, strangely enough, and Thorin never disagrees, never argues, never laughs at him – simply listens, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he's still there at all.

_The body is strong enough in theory,_ Bilbo remembers Oin explaining, _but it's the mind that will be the most difficult to rouse. Nothing but time, and his own decision to wake up, can bring him back now._

Bilbo thinks he can hear it before going to sleep, amidst the rhythmical clacking and clanging of the mountain working hard once again, the forges feeding the mines and the dwarves repairing, cleaning and replacing everything they can get their hands on – it's a cacophony of odd sounds Bilbo is entirely unused to, and yet, sometimes, laying awake and staring blindly into the pitch black of his little room, he hears voices.

Not the same way one does when your neighbors have decided to start squabbling right outside your door in the middle of a perfectly lovely afternoon kip, or the way you overhear bits and pieces of a conversation when making your way through a crowd – no, these are whispers, unintelligible and melodic, as if the stone itself is speaking, and Bilbo always feels quite silly, thinking about it like that, quite silly indeed. But he also remembers stepping foot inside the mountain for the first time, terrified and expecting a swift and fiery death behind every corner, and remembers the stupefying _quiet,_ even though there had been a dragon resting underneath all that gold.

Sometimes, in the private world of his daydreaming, he thinks it's the dwarves that had once lived in this mountain, the ones they saw in that one chamber back when they were still trying to make their escape from Smaug, the lost voices of them and countless others, finally free to celebrate their homecoming alongside everyone else... And he just hopes with all he has that he won't start hearing Thorin's voice among them, telling him to stop worrying and let him rest in peace.

Or maybe... well, maybe he's simply going insane, that's a far more plausible explanation.

“We hobbits need fresh air, despite what you might think, and lots of it,” he explains to Balin and Bofur and a handful of others over their regular supper together – the Company have all claimed new jobs helping with the restoration of the mountain, and they go hours, sometimes days, without seeing one another, but make a point of meeting as often as they can to catch up.

“It doesn't do well for us to dwell in darkness for so long, not to mention the _cold,_ ” Bilbo complains, accentuating that with a light shudder, several dwarf hands reaching out to pat him on the shoulder at the same time.

“It would be silly to travel all the way back to the Shire now, though, what with the winter we're having,” Bofur points out, and everyone nods and hums their agreement.

“I know, I know, I'm certainly not planning on freezing halfway home – halfway there, not after having gone through what I've gone through to get here, believe me,” Bilbo sniffs, and registers a couple of curious looks, which he promptly chooses to ignore, for now.

“You could always stay closer to the kitchens,” Bombur offers, “it's always warmer down here.”

“No, no,” Bilbo hastens to shake his head, then, after realizing the others might not find his _actual_ reason for staying in the room he'd woken up in quite so sensible, he adds more softly, “I'm fine where I am, really. And the thought of living so close to so many dwarves all at once? Dain's soldiers? No thank you – I spent months on the road with you lot, I know how you snore.”

That meets with scattered laughter, as well as a number of indignant huffs.

“We're not _that_ bad!” protests Bombur.

“Coming from anyone else but the dwarf who's made the very bones in my body rattle with each snore on _numerous occasions,_ I'd believe it,” Bilbo retorts elegantly, and receives even more laughter for his effort.

He feels safe here, he realizes. Incredibly relieved that all... almost all of his friends have come out of this heedless quest more or less unharmed, and _safe._ Relaxed, not so much, what with trying to stay on top of things every single day, trying to look unassuming but also like various people will want to confess various things of varying importance to him – he doesn't know why he does it, but the idea of just sitting idly by and trying to stay out of the way isn't a particularly appealing one, that's for sure.

But luckily for him, the dwarves treat him with nothing but respect, even the ones from Dain's army, though he's not entirely sure what he's done to deserve it – but it seems entirely natural to everyone that he attends a lot of meetings by Balin's side, or is always present when Bard comes to speak for the Men of Dale. _Those_ meetings only ever tend to go amicably if Bilbo and Bard have a little bit of time to talk one on one, and include precisely _zero_ dwarves.

All in all, Bilbo has never asked to get even the least bit involved in, in _politics,_ but now that he's here, he might as well help out. And if he does it mostly so that he has something to talk about when sitting by Thorin's bed at night, well then, that's no one else's business but his own.

“So you'll stay?” Ori asks him, clutching his large mug full of something steaming and potent, and all the other dwarves look on curiously, kindly – Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, exchanging a glance with Balin, and smiling a bit helplessly.

“For now,” he concedes at last, “until the winter passes, at least.”

They seem incredibly pleased with that, huffing their approval and patting his back once again, as if one halfling eating their measly rations and being inappropriately nosy for a while longer is the best news they've heard since the death of the dragon. It warms Bilbo's heart, but he can't help but wonder... he twiddles his thumbs and stares at his own hands blankly for a wee moment, and when he raises his head again, he sees Balin watching him, and it is obvious in his eyes, obvious that he they both know what Bilbo means.

_Until the winter passes, at least._

_Or until he wakes up._

 

A week later, Bilbo sits by Thorin's bedside once again, and talks endlessly about the appropriate time to plant potatoes, when an idea occurs to him. A ridiculous idea, and possibly an entirely foolish one, since he's no healer, and might for all intents and purposes end up making Thorin's state even worse, but all he knows is... All he can think about is Balin and Dain frowning more and more with each passing day that the mountain goes without her rightful ruler, and the tears in Kili's eyes when he first hopped across the hall on his crutches to see his Uncle, and the questions the recently woken up Fili keeps asking about Thorin in the morning, forgetting them by the time for supper, his mind still too tired and bruised to remember for very long...

All he can think about is what his mother used to say – _a fool's hope is a better than no hope at all, my lad._

And so, he does the thing that he's been avoiding doing by Thorin's bedside all this time now, even though he could have used a way to calm his nerves many times over – he lights his pipe.

“Westfarthing Leaf,” he announces, as if trying to sell a barrel of it to some traveling dwarf in Bree, just like his cousins used to do, “it's not the strongest, and I wouldn't trust the elves about storing it properly as far as I could spit, but _my goodness_ is it delicious. Can you smell that?”

He loses his thread for a bit there, his own foolishness heating up his cheeks and tying his tongue, and so he watches the translucent ribbons of smoke swirling slowly up towards the ceiling for a bit, before closing his eyes and letting the taste fill his lungs.

“The secret is all in the harvest, you know,” he mumbles happily, leaning back in his little chair, “just the teensiest bit late, so that the flavor has that spicy kick, but sweetened in turn by adding a bit of herb here and there... Rumor has it they'd watered the tobacco trees with wine back in the day, made them grow all special, but I don't know about that, it just sounds like a waste of perfectly good wine to me.”

It helps, babbling nonsense, and the scent and his reminiscing both make him feel very nostalgic for the Shire, very nostalgic indeed – for the first time in a while, days, weeks, such a weakness washes over him, a clot of something dully painful rising in his throat, and he simply breathes for a while, chasing it away. It wouldn't do to cry now, would it.

“You once told me it stuck your teeth together, _too sweet_ or some such nonsense,” he continues gently, eyes closed still, smiling at the ceiling dumbly – he'd give quite the show, were anyone to walk in right now, he's sure.

“Well, I'll have you know it's the _perfect amount_ of sweet,” he mumbles a bit dumbly, the heady taste of the pipeweed making his tongue far too heavy, “not all bitter and spicy like the dreck the Iron Hills dwarves smoke, you know. It's very generous of them to offer, very generous indeed, but... this is why you maintain good relations with elves! They have access to excellent pipeweed. You should consider it, you really should. Forget past hurts, just be a little bit nicer to each other for the sake of a good smoke, that's all I'm saying. But of course you'd have to be awake for... for that.”

The silly giggles that start like a soft wave of relief somewhere in his chest at his own nonsensical chattering, get swallowed in a sudden, sadder intake of breath with that last sentence, and Bilbo exhales raggedly, blowing smoke out his nose in one frustrated puff. His eyes flutter open, and he glares at the shadows of the ceiling, the flickering light of the oil lamp soothing the edges of intricate geometric patterns.

“You also asked me if I was willing to stay, once upon a time,” he says much more quietly, unable to bring himself to look at Thorin still, perhaps pretending he's awake, or not there at all, “were you planning this all along, eh? You know... you know I can't go now, not while you're... Oh, drat.”

He all but spits his pipe out and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand furiously, even though just a few little tears had rolled out – still, it's very foolish and entirely impractical, and really, what was he-

He never gets to finish that thought, because he _does_ finally look at Thorin then, and unless it's some cruel trick Bilbo's smoke-addled mind has conjured up... Thorin looks back.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Bilbo is afraid.

He genuinely thought he was done with running away, but had instead learned how to run _towards_ things. That he'd become _braver_ , at some point on this ridiculous journey, that he'd been taught by circumstance how to come face to face with something that terrifies him, and _endure._ Oh well.

He hasn't been to Thorin's room ever since the sight of his icy blue eyes peering open made him choke on pipe smoke and all but topple off his stool – entirely foolishly, Bilbo had stared for a moment, his heart tolling like a bell, and then when Thorin's gaze focused on him, he sprung up like a startled rabbit, dashed to find Oin, or another healer, or _anyone,_ and hasn't come back since.

Which is, of course, a very traditionally Baggins thing to do, sticking his head in the sand – his father would nod his head solemnly, and his Tookish mother would put her hands on her hips and tut-tut until he felt thoroughly ashamed.

Of course, neither of them are here right now, and so Bilbo is left to deal with all of it completely on his lonesome.

That, he discovers, is best done by hiding away in the archives where Ori and his team are restoring everything that's survived the struggle with time _and_ dragonfire – the vast halls are quiet save the gentle murmur of the ruffling of old scrolls, and the echo of the footsteps and voices gathering high, high up under the ceiling, but most importantly, Ori is by far the least intrusive and curious of the Company, and so Bilbo is allowed to relax here. He might not know a lick of Khuzdul and thus be poor help with the categorizing, but he _is_ perfectly capable of picking up and carrying and placing things when he's told to do so. He misses the outside, misses fresh air and even misses some of the Men he's come to know, but what with the blizzards they've been having lately, this is a much safer place to stay, and as perfect a hiding spot as he can find without actually leaving the mountain.

He's yet to discern what exactly he's hiding _from,_ but all in due time.

Ori and him are making their way back outside through one of the less derelict sections of the upper library (Bilbo can't even _imagine_ how deep it goes; Ori's tried explaining it in units of depth and length and space he couldn't hope to understand if he spent his lifetime studying them, he thinks), splitting up at one point to cover more ground, and they are separated by a handful of tall shelves and a staircase when the call comes for the dwarf. Bilbo thinks nothing of it at first – Ori is as busy as the rest of them, and taking on the admirable job of caring for his kin's legacy comes with a side of being _very_ needed, usually by several people at once, all the time – but then he recognizes Bofur's voice, and stops, and listens, the conversation carrying perfectly in here.

“Well, you've done a lot of work here, impressive. No cave-ins?”

“None so far. I spoke to Bifur, he says the staircases are sound. Did you come to check up on them again?”

“No, not this time, actually. Is Bilbo around?”

“Ah, yes, he should be, unless he hasn't left yet... Bilbo?” Ori calls, and Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, but the words simply don't come out.

“Bilbo! Why do you need him, is something wrong?”

“Oh, no no, no such thing,” Bofur says, “Balin sent me to fetch him since I had the afternoon to spare – Thorin's been asking after him again.”

Bilbo's heart flutters in his chest like a frightened bird attempting to escape, and an irrational panic seizes him.

“Bilbo? Is that you down there?” Bofur calls, and the footsteps are coming closer now – without thinking about it for even one second, Bilbo reaches for the ring in his pocket, swiftly slipping it on and standing frozen still.

“Bilbo?” Ori wonders again as him and Bofur appear atop the staircase.

“Could he have gotten lost?” Bofur worries, making Bilbo feel the teensiest bit ashamed for hiding away.

“No, no, he knows his way around by now. I suppose he's gone, then. He said something about helping out Bombur in the kitchens later, maybe you'll find him there.”

“Hmm,” Bofur sounds unconvinced, “perhaps.”

“Is Thorin...?” Ori poses the beginning of a question, his voice wavering a bit at the end.

“He's well,” Bofur sighs, both of them turning away, walking back towards the exit, “restless, apparently. It's a chore to keep him in bed, whenever he does wake up.”

Bilbo finds himself following them without a second's thought – but then, this isn't the most elaborate plan he's ever devised, really.

“Will he be alright?” Ori worries sweetly and genuinely, and Bofur laughs softly, patting him on the back by the sound of it, reassuring him: “Of course he will be. He just needs to rest some more, but we both know sitting around and doing nothing isn't exactly his strong suit.”

They leave the library chattering idly, and part ways outside, and Bilbo stands there dumbly for a moment, entirely unsure of what to do – there are far too many people everywhere for him to just take the ring off and appear out of thin air, but that's not even the point. He doesn't particularly _feel_ like taking it off.

After a bit of thinking, he's scaling the stairs to the upper floors before he knows it, expertly avoiding everyone – the higher he goes, the less dwarves there are, but the stronger the murmur of the voices everywhere around him, a soft, unsettling susurration of a crowd long gone. He pays them no mind, though, and only ever stops when he finally arrives in the hall where Thorin's and his nephews' rooms are, suddenly uncertain again.

He hears laughter coming from Fili and Kili's room, and it's the most beautiful sound, but he'll leave them be for now. He approaches the other room slowly, almost cautiously, as if some part of him is ready to bolt and run away at a moment's notice – a sentiment that he almost makes a reality when someone opens the door right into his face. It is a testament to his agility that he doesn't tumble backwards and fall on his bum, revealing his presence in a very undignified manner.

Oin walks past him, muttering grumpily under his breath, and before the door swings shut behind him, Bilbo sees Thorin in his bed, eyes closed, bandages wrapping his torso... He stands there alone in the hallway for quite a while, pondering his next steps, before finally deciding, opening the door as quietly as he possibly can, and tiptoeing inside.

Thorin lies as still as the day Bilbo first came to visit him, but at least his breathing is visible now, and his face is clean of almost all the bruises – the thin scar bisecting his forehead will be there to stay, but other than that, he looks much stronger, more color in his cheeks than Bilbo ever remembers seeing, his hands clasped peacefully on his stomach in his sleep.

Or what Bilbo thought was a sleep – the door flies open once more, and in strides Oin again, startling Bilbo so much he barely finds enough time and room to move out of his way. Thorin's eyes flutter open, and they are as bright and piercing as ever, and Bilbo discovers it's very difficult to breathe all of a sudden. He backs away into the shadows on the far side of the room, and listens, cursing his own foolish self for thinking this was a good idea.

“Up you go. Let me take a look at that,” Oin orders Thorin softly, and something in how he obliges, obediently but slowly, each movement clearly still causing him pain, makes Bilbo's chest constrict.

“How long?” Thorin asks Oin, and even hearing his voice, quiet but determined, hoarse but urgent, does things to the regularity of Bilbo's heartbeat, “how long do I have to stay here?”

“The second you can walk from this bed to that door without wincing or tripping once, I'm equipping you with a cane and and setting you on your merry way, laddie,” Oin promises sourly, paying attention solely to applying some sort of salve to the healing wound on his forehead.

“Fine, I'll demonstrate right now,” Thorin grumbles.

“You won't be _demonstrating_ anything any time soon, now _stop fidgeting,_ ” Oin scolds him as if he were a petulant child, and Thorin groans and pouts, readjusting himself.

“I can't bear this much longer, Oin,” he sighs, “I must get to work, I must be present for all the negotiations, I can't let...”

“Let what? Let others do your job for you while you're recovering?” Oin tut-tuts, “the negotiations have been going on just fine without you for a very long time now, believe me. I think everyone can stand to wait a couple more days. Don't fret now, Balin will come later with the news, provided you're awake.”

“I will be,” says Thorin quietly but firmly.

Oin moves on to rearrange something in the cupboard by the bed, and Thorin's eyes travel the room, and settle right on Bilbo sooner than he can react – he's afraid his surprised intake of breath might be too loud, but Thorin's stare drops after a moment, and he looks at his own hands, interlacing his fingers idly in a fidgety tick that is, Bilbo finds, oddly endearing.

“And Bilbo?” he mumbles, “is he well?”

Only Bilbo can see Oin's movements halting momentarily, and his gaze darting elsewhere, before he sighs deeply and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

“I should think so,” he replies almost reluctantly, “very busy. I hear he's been helping out young Ori in the libraries, now that it's too cold to visit Dale anymore.”

“I see,” Thorin sighs, and it's so quiet Oin can't possibly hear it – only Bilbo does, and feels well and truly horrible right there and then. He's not entirely sure what's kept him from coming to at least greet Thorin, offer a few friendly words, but it all seems redundant now. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than for Oin to finish his work and leave, so that he can take the blasted ring off, and just _be there._

“I think Balin's been meaning to tell him you've been asking after him, hopefully he'll be able to find him and send him to you,” Oin notes perfectly casually, but all blood drains from Thorin's face in the fraction of a second.

His fists clench and unclench on the plain sheets time and time again, his jaw set tight, as if he's holding back from saying what's on his mind, and Bilbo's heart races now – what a silly decision this was. And he thought eavesdropping on a _dragon_ was the most traumatic thing that could ever happen to him.

“I would not blame him for not wanting to see me,” Thorin says at long last, “after what I... what I did to him.”

Oin's hands stop in the midst of grinding ingredients for a new salve, and since he is facing Bilbo's way, he can see the worry in his eyes. Slowly and somewhat laboriously, the healer turns around to face the King, and his voice is kind as he speaks to Thorin as if he weren't that, as if he were nothing more than a troubled boy: “It was not your fault, what happened – what you did. You were not thinking clearly, and you never would have hurt him if you had. You weren't yourself, we all know that. Bilbo knows that.”

Thorin stares at him mutely, harried eyes large, and Bilbo is torn between fleeing and speaking up and revealing himself instantly – either way, the notion that this is what Thorin thinks makes his insides twist. Completely unwittingly, Bilbo has made him think that he's afraid of him, that he can't face him because he thinks him some kind of a – a monster, when nothing could be further from the truth.

He wants to take the ring off right now and tell Thorin everything, remind him that he was forgiven a long time ago, that Bilbo has never blamed him for a single thing, that whatever came to pass between them when Thorin's mind was clouded, never made Bilbo forget everything else, everything they'd gone through side by side. That Bilbo has been scared, and angry, and desperate, but he never doubted him for a second.

But as it is, all he can do now is stand there like the silly ridiculous halfling out of his hole and out of his depth that he is and always has been, and watch Thorin settle back to sleep. Oin leaves before long, and Bilbo lingers as the King's breathing stills, a peace only sleep can bring softening his features.

Bilbo takes his ring off at long last, with a bitter determination, shoving it in his pocket, and slumps on the chair by the bed, not really worried about disturbing Thorin anymore.

“I'm so sorry,” he sighs heavily, wringing his hands in his lap much like Thorin had done earlier, “for everything. They all say it doesn't matter, and I was... well, I _was_ trying to avoid war, you know, I remember being so worried about all of you, and _obviously_ I could have come up with a different solution, because look where that one took us...”

“Bilbo.”

“No, no, let me finish, I think it's important that I....”

His ears finally manage to relay the message to his head, and his blathering comes to a stuttering halt, swallowing whatever he was about to say, and he looks up, almost frightened of what he will discover.

It's nothing but a pair of icy blue eyes gazing at him calmly and silently, and yet it's almost too much to bear.

“Bilbo,” Thorin repeats, smiling so fondly Bilbo wants to protest immediately, “you've stayed.”

He opens his mouth, but forming coherent sentences isn't currently possible – he offers a shrug and a wobbly smile in response, rapidly blinking away the sudden burning in his eyes.

“I was beginning to think you'd left, and they just didn't want to tell me about it,” Thorin chuckles.

“No, I'm, err...” Bilbo has to clear his throat before he can continue, but gathers a bit more conviction along the way, “I'm here. Of course I stayed.”

“I'm glad,” Thorin says so earnestly that Bilbo feels his cheeks flush, and his gaze flickers away.

“I'm sorry I, um... couldn't come visit you earlier, I was...”

“Very busy, yes, I know,” Thorin chuckles, and when Bilbo dares look at him once more, his face is so open, his smile so soft and genuine, that his heart flutters in his chest like a frantic bird, and a silly, relieved grin tugs at his mouth.

“I'm not... That is, I never meant to...” he starts again, the words somehow coming to him so much more difficult now that Thorin is actually awake, but the dwarf stops him gently, his hand raised almost imperceptibly.

“ _You_ do not need to apologize to _me_ ,” he declares evenly, “if anything, it should be the other way around. I was not myself when I hurt you, and I would have never...-”

“Thorin, Thorin please,” Bilbo peeps faintly.

“No, let me finish. There are some things that need saying, I think, I just... I didn't think I'd get the chance to say them again.”

“Thorin, no, you've said enough, I told you I was glad to, to share in your perils, and I don't need you to-”

“Bilbo,” the dwarf sighs, and he looks so much smaller without all his armor on, pale and a bit thinner, and the backs of his knuckles are bruised still, Bilbo sees – he has a sudden urge to reach out and clasp his hands over Thorin's, but he refrains; lets him speak instead, hoping he will have what it takes to bear it.

“I was a fool,” Thorin confesses meekly, but with determination, “I was too blind to see that I had succumbed to the exact same sickness that had been my grandfather's downfall, and I put everyone around me in mortal peril. I was suspicious of those closest to me, and I treated them unfairly. And then after my mind finally cleared, I didn't think I would get to – I didn't think I'd see you again. Indeed I went into battle hoping you were halfway back home already, safe, and far away from _me._ I had been selfish, and blinded and overpowered, by something that was so much stronger than me, but you... Seeing you again when you came to warn us, I... I wanted to live. Live to fight another day. Seeing you _now,_ I want to live.”

Bilbo's mouth must hang open quite comically, but he can't quite bring himself to control it – Thorin is firmly staring at his own hands now, and he's... is that shame? On second thought, Bilbo _can't_ bear it.

“Please don't,” he exhales shakily, half expecting Thorin to interrupt him yet again, but instead, the dwarf glances at him, confused, which propels Bilbo to speak more steadfastly, “we've all... we've _both_ made mistakes. Thorin. It's done now. It's finished. The mountain stands reclaimed, and you are... you are alive, because you _fought_ for it, and that's all... that's all that matters, really, isn't it?”

The dwarf looks hardly convinced, Bilbo recognizes it far too well, that underlying doubt – but neither of them have the capacity to deal with it now, he feels.

At some point, without realizing it at all, he's reached forward and covered Thorin's hand with both of his own – he freezes when he sees it, but instead of moving away, he looks to Thorin, looks into his eyes and finds himself captured. A shuddering sigh escapes him when the King shifts his hand and brushes his thumb across his knuckles, the softest, feather-light touch – never looking anywhere else but Thorin's eyes, Bilbo responds, opening his palm and lacing their fingers together, one by one, ever so tentatively, prepared to retreat at the first sign of refusal.

No words are needed anymore, and they'd probably end up hindering them anyway – it's easier like this, though the real meaning escapes them both. But for now, Bilbo thinks, he'll be content searching for it, at the very least. And if _slow_ is what it takes, he decides and the look in Thorin's eyes confirms for him, then so it shall be.

Of course, that will also mean getting interrupted at the least opportune moment by people barging in, but nothing has ever been simple. Their hands spring apart lightning-quick when Balin invites himself in with only a short knock on the door, striding inside purposefully and only stopping when he really takes in the both of them.

“Well, finally, you've found each other,” he declares, and Bilbo is glad to get up abruptly and make room for him on the chair, if only to hide his sudden blush.

“No, please, stay,” Thorin speaks up when he's about to head for the door, and Bilbo turns to look at him, opening his mouth a bit helplessly.

“No, no, I wouldn't want to impose, I'm sure that Balin has some very important news-”

“Nothing you don't know about already, laddie,” Balin smirks.

“Balin has told me about you helping negotiate with Dale,” Thorin adds, and his smile is _still_ detrimental to Bilbo's peace of mind.

“Oh, no no, I'd hardly call that _negotiating,_ you know, they really just needed someone to... eh, well, not shout at Bard for no apparent reason whenever he stepped foot inside the mountain, for one...”

“Yes, Dain is quite incapable of that still, I'm afraid,” Balin sniggers, and Thorin laughs, a quiet rumble, and Bilbo knows that, well, he won't be leaving any time soon now.

 

It is a bit odd, sitting at the foot of Thorin's bed, listening to Balin's seemingly endless rapport, and stealing glances at Thorin himself – he is attentive enough, his brow furrowed and serious, but Bilbo recognizes exhaustion far too well when he sees it. He's still not strong enough, and if he makes himself stay awake by sheer willpower, he certainly won't be helping the healing process.

Fortunately, even that is interrupted eventually, a dwarf sent by Oin delivering food, and Balin recognizes his cue.

“I'll bring you all the papers tomorrow,” he promises Thorin, and winks at Bilbo as he gets up, “provided you want to spend the whole day reading through hastily drafted treaties.”

“Well, I think I must,” Thorin smirks, “Dain is a brilliant tactician, but I believe most of his esteemed scribes stayed in the Iron Hills.”

More laughter from all sides, and Balin strides out as quick as he came, leaving the door open for Bilbo, who... isn't too keen on leaving just yet, but one look at Thorin tells him that's beside the point.

“Well, good night,” he smiles, “despite what it sounds like, I'm sure the kingdom won't topple overnight.”

“That's very optimistic of you,” Thorin smirks, grunting as he sits up better and reaches for the steaming bowl of broth – he winces in pain as his numerous wounds announce themselves, but quite virtually grits his teeth against it and soldiers through, balancing the bowl on his legs, since at least one of his arms isn't exactly doing its job very well.

Bilbo watches him struggle, halfway out the door, but there's only so much he can take, really.

“Let me, will you?” he sighs, hurrying back to his bedside, quelling Thorin's worries right from the very start, “I don't think either of our dignities would survive me feeding you, but let me... at least...”

He holds the bowl up for Thorin, who glares from it to Bilbo himself, but in the end is too tired to complain, eating slowly, cautiously.

“You need greens,” Bilbo decides after a moment, which causes the dwarf to choke on his food a little bit, and eye him highly suspiciously.

“Dwarves do not _do_ green food,” he declares very solemnly.

“Uh-huh,” Bilbo hums, unimpressed, “they have their benefits, you know. There's nothing a good chicken broth with carrots and parsley cannot cure. I'll ask around in the kitchens next time I'm there.”

He is very aware of Thorin looking at him intently for the longest time, scrutinizing almost, but he decides to pay it no mind, or at least pretend like he's paying it no mind – but the silence becomes too much eventually, of course it does.

“I've been sort of smuggling cakes to Fili and Kili, Kili especially shouldn't eat much more than soup and... mashed things, he's young, but his injury will need a lot of time, from what I understand. But I _do_ make them eat something healthy for each sweet treat I bring them, you know, so it's only fair that you I do the same with you. I mean, I don't...”

“No no, I suppose there is no one better to oversee our diets than a hobbit, after all,” Thorin grins.

“I'll take that as a compliment,” Bilbo grumbles.

“You should.”

The silence is there again – it's the words they _don't_ say, really. _Thank you._ _I'm glad you're alright._ _I'm sorry,_ a thousand times over. And others, different ones they wouldn't dare admit to thinking about, but that are always there, have been there... who knows how long, really. It doesn't take spelling them out for them to resonate between them, with each look. The truth is, Bilbo didn't think he'd ever see Thorin again, either. The truth is, he held his hand up on that frozen waterfall, willing him to stay alive, and swallowed so many words just because he thought saying them would be in vain.

The truth is, the world won't stop just to accommodate them, just to give them enough time to say it all, and it's infuriating.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says quietly, trying nevertheless, trying without a clear plan, but knowing that try he must.

“Yes.”

Bilbo has seen him with a crown on his head and blood on his face, in full armor and in plain clothes, sitting on his throne and sitting in a cell, seen him at his worst and at his best, and yet he always manages to astound him in some entirely new and unexpected way. It's becoming slightly worrying.

“Would you like to have a smoke?”

There he goes again, saying none of the words he actually wants to say, but, well... _these_ words make Thorin laugh until he winces in pain, and there's a gleam in his eyes that has nothing to do with the reflections of gold or the spark of a terrible sickness claiming its hold, and Bilbo decides that that's enough for now.

“I've been craving one ever since I woke up,” Thorin confesses, and Bilbo thinks his grin might split his cheeks.

Yes, definitely enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we have officially crossed from 'filling the gaps in canon with short drabbles' territory, to... this. Heh. Writing these two dumbos dancing around one another is all I seem to be capable of doing, so yeah :D


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the Queen.

Gandalf returns, as is the nature of wizards, when everyone least expects him. Incessant blizzards have stalled the flow of people both in and out of the mountain, no one is allowed to enter the terraces anymore, or even think of visiting Dale for that matter, and a strange despondence overcomes Bilbo, like an exhaustion that he can't quite shake – without confessing in anyone, he dreams of the Fell Winter, of spending days, weeks on end barricaded inside Bag End with his parents, reserves of food dwindling, dark shadows prowling at the doorstep at night making it impossible for them to set foot outside.

Even though the mountain is large enough, and infinitely safer, and they definitely won't be running out of food any time soon here, Bilbo feels... caged, at times. Which is why the delegation of dwarves from the Blue Mountains appearing at the gates one slow morning, accompanied by a fellow in a very familiar tall hat, does wonders for his mood.

“Your affairs are all in order, my dear Bilbo,” Gandalf relays the good news, still shaking snow out of his beard and readily accepting the steaming bowl of broth the kitchen offers to him as it does to the rest of the group, “though some of your relatives are, I'm sorry to say, utterly bothersome.”

“That would be the Sackville-Bagginses, I suppose,” Bilbo sighs, “is all my silverware accounted for?”

“I wouldn't know,” Gandalf chuckles, “I didn't stop to count the spoons, I'm afraid.”

“You _did_ get back here awfully quickly, that's true.”

“I can travel swiftly if I choose to,” the wizard offers a vague explanation at best, “besides, I saw it fit to catch up to the group from Ered Luin.”

“Right,” Bilbo nods, taking a look around, sneakily inspecting the newly arrived dwarves, “they are... quite something.”

“Thorin's kin, all of them, to a degree,” Gandalf nods, “and of course the Queen Regent's entourage, they are the ones in black and blue.”

“The – the Queen?” Bilbo peeps, staring a tad reverently at the flock of guards in the dark armor, heavy travel coats of royal blue still over their shoulders, a rightly intimidating collection of weaponry peeking out from under them here and there.

“Lady Dis, yes,” Gandalf smiles, “Fili and Kili's mother.”

“Oh,” Bilbo sighs, feeling a bit relieved, though he can't exactly say why, “oh, of course. Where is she, then?”

“Off to see her misbehaving offspring, I imagine,” the wizard chuckles, “how have they been, anyway?”

“Incredibly restless, more and more so with each passing day,” Bilbo grins, “which is a good sign, don't get me wrong. It is a challenge to keep Kili in bed, though.”

“Fili doesn't have much of a choice in the matter, I imagine,” Gandalf hums, then adds softly when Bilbo doesn't answer right away, “I heard of his injuries.”

“He is... young. Strong. At least that's what they tell me,” Bilbo shrugs, wringing his hands on the table, “the feeling in his legs is not gone completely, but as it is, he can't... He can't use them very well at all, I don't know the details, I...”

“Don't despair so, Master hobbit,” Gandalf declares cheerfully, reaching across the table to pat his hands reassuringly, “the dwarves of Ered Luin are famous for their healing capabilities, and I intend to take a look at Fili myself at one point or another.”

“You will?” Bilbo perks up.

“Of course I will,” the wizard smiles, and if Bilbo felt relief, even joy, before, it overwhelms him now.

“Now, how is our most obstinate patient doing?” Gandalf asks some more, making Bilbo burst into laughter, also a manner of relief, really.

“Thorin? He's... well. Bullheaded and determined to run himself ragged even though he _can't_ actually run _anywhere_ even if he tried, but... well.”

Gandalf hums thoughtfully, looking at Bilbo a bit inquisitively for a moment, as if expecting him to add something more, but then he sighs, looking immensely pleased for some reason.

“All good news, then,” he concedes, “I think I should like to speak to him now.”

“Oh, no, right now is actually not good at all, he has one of his regular sessions with Dain and Balin for a while longer, there have been some new trade agreements with Dale, and from what I understand the rebuilding of the lower vaults isn't going as steadily as expected, so really, it might take a while longer for them to... what. What?”

The wizard looks on him pensively now, as if he's quite amazed with what he sees, and that unnerves Bilbo a little bit.

“What is it?” he demands, a bit flustered.

“You never fail to surprise me,” Gandalf smiles broadly, “and I dare say I'm not the only one. I'm pleased to see you've found a place for yourself here.”

“Well, I hardly have a choice, do I,” Bilbo titters a tad uncertainly, “I couldn't very well sit in my rooms with my hands clasped in my lap, now could I, since I'm stuck here for the time being. At least until the weather clears.”

“And _after_ the weather clears?” Gandalf cocks one expectant eyebrow, but before Bilbo can bring himself to answer, the everyday commotion of the kingdom catches up to them, too – the newly arrived dwarves need a place to stay, and since Bilbo has a lot of spare time on his hands, he helps with accommodating them without anyone really prompting him to, and the wizard is whisked off by Balin at one point or another.

By the time he makes it upstairs with the regular stolen cake for Fili and Kili, Bilbo has managed to forget all about his question, and _almost_ forget about the new arrivals – the most important one of them all doesn't fail to re-announce herself loudly enough, though.

“-And I _told you_ to wait, to take more time, but _no-o,_ you had to go _right away!_ You had to _hurry!_ Well guess what, nothing good ever came out of _rushing things,_ and I'd say your own inability to walk without a cane attests to exactly that! Mahal's hanging hammers, I should have come with you.”

Bilbo comes to an abrupt halt at that enraged tirade coming from Thorin's quarters, and he ponders ducking into his nephews' room instead, but then he hears the dwarf's voice, so much quieter and timid by comparison, and his curiosity gets the better of him. He tiptoes closer to the door half ajar...

“Did what had to be done?! Oh, you _did what had to be done,_ why didn't I think of that before?! So you would be happiest if you had your hard-won kingdom mourn you as a martyr, is that what you wanted?”

Bilbo almost trips over his feet, that's how quickly he backs away – it's not difficult to guess who's the one scolding Thorin right now, and if he bears being on the receiving end of _that_ this quietly, his sister must be quite something – certainly something to steer clear of, for now.

“Bilbo!” Kili's exhilarated greeting almost causes him another heart attack when he enters their room walking, stumbling back, “you've brought cake!”

“I have, I have, yes...” Bilbo mutters, still casting cautious looks to the door, as if Lady Dis might come bursting through at any given moment to rain her wrath down on him as well.

“Don't worry about that,” Fili all but reads his thoughts, “she's been yelling at him like this for quite a while now. It's what she does.”

“Yeah, we're just glad she's not shouting at _us_ anymore,” Kili grins, greedily grabbing at the delicacies Bilbo had brought them.

“Does she... do that a lot?” Bilbo peeps.

“ _Maybe I should have knocked you out cold before you even left, that would have been doing everyone a favor!”_

“A lot, yes,” the brothers agree in unison, and Bilbo sits on the edge of Kili's bed, glancing in the direction of what is surely Thorin's undoing with much concern.

“She shouts, and complains, and threatens bodily harm, but then she hugs you and cries for a bit, so it usually works out for the best,” Fili supplies casually, and Kili only nods, mouth already full.

“I... see?”

“At least that's what she did with  _ us, _ ” Fili shrugs, “Uncle might not be so lucky.”

“Should I, uh... Should I go in there?” Bilbo wonders.

“Not if you want your head cleaved off with one of her battle axes,” Kili suggests plainly.

At that very moment, a suspicious silence reigns, and Bilbo and the brothers exchange curious looks.

“Maybe she  _ did _ knock him out cold,” Kili ponders.

“ Probably just  crushing his ribs with that hug, and sniffling into his shoulder, just like she did with us,” Fili counters, picking at the dirt behind his fingernails with a small blade, as if this is just another casual afternoon at the Durin household. For all Bilbo knows, it might be.

 

But before long, they hear the door of Thorin's room creaking open, and a heavy set of footsteps heading their way – Bilbo isn't even given the time to decide whether he should flee before Lady Dis herself comes marching in.

“Well then, even you two whelps put up more of a fight than your Uncle, I am sorry to report.”

“What did you do to him,  _ Amad? _ ” Fili scolds her playfully, “he's awfully quiet in there.”

“He's  _ resting  _ now,” she declares vaguely ominously, “as should you two – oh.”

“Now, play nice,  _ Amad. _ This is Bilbo,” Kili notes, and Bilbo comes face to face with the Queen for the first time ever, left a little weak in the knees at the encounter.

She is glorious, there's no other way to describe her – sharp features and proud nose strikingly similar to Thorin's, though perhaps less lines of worry and age crease her brow. Her eyes are a darker blue than her brother's, but  _ certainly _ no less piercing, and both her hair and beard an almost raven black, braided and adorned with beads and trinkets. She wears a fur-lined royal blue cape over sensible leather armor, the aforementioned twin axes swaying at her hips, and she is... well, breathtaking, but Bilbo supposes it's just a family trait.

“So,” she says, much like her brother had done ages ago on Bilbo's doorstep, “this is the hobbit?”

“I don't know about  _ the _ hobbit,” Bilbo titters nervously,  “certainly the only one around here, I suppose. It is a pleasure to meet you, Your... Ladyship?”

“That  _ is _ the correct title, but if their proper usage worries you, you could just call me by my name, you know,” she smirks, and when his mouth falls open a tad helplessly, she laughs shortly and clamps one heavy hand to his shoulder, declaring, “it is my immense pleasure to meet you, too, Master hobbit.”

“ _ Amad, _ be gentle,” Fili sighs theatrically, and she scowls at him.

“Yes, look what  _ being gentle _ with you two accomplished. Now go on, off to sleep with both of you!”

“We're not thirty anymore,  _ Amad! _ ”

“Could have fooled me. Good night!”

Bilbo has a great deal of fun watching her tuck them in as if they were, in fact, still children, bumping their foreheads affectionately together with each of them, and marching outside. He follows her and bids her a goodnight of his own, but she turns to him with a plea before he can skitter off: “Do you think you might walk me to my quarters? I understand you know your way around this mountain very well, in which you certainly have an advantage over me.”

Bilbo is so surprised that all he manages is a small nod, and only gathers enough courage to call after her when she's already started off marching in the wrong direction.

“I don't know what it was about my ancestors thinking it was a good idea to build  _ a labyrinth _ of a kingdom,” she grumbles as they walk side by side, her chambers not very far away at all, “I was only a small child myself when we had to leave here, you see, and all I knew back then was the way from my room to the rooms of my brothers... Then the heat, and someone carrying me outside, hallways upon hallways I'd never seen. Very confusing, then and now both.”

She possesses the strange skill of making even the most serious of words sound somewhat pleasant, and Bilbo can't help but steal glances at her, while she inspects seemingly every pillar they pass, every  bridge they cross, the markings engraved on the walls, remembering or seeing them for the first time, Bilbo does not know.

“ Well then, here we are, Your Ladyship,” he announces when they stand before the door to her quarters at last, and she looks at him distantly, as if she's all but forgotten he's there, but a smile dances on her lips soon enough.

“I thought I asked you to call me by my name.”

“Oh, well, yes, and thank you for that, but I couldn't possibly – oh!”

Before he can figure out what's what, two strong arms pull him into a brief, but no less rib-crushing, embrace, his face momentarily stuffed with fur and dwarven hair, and honestly is this a family custom as well?!

“Um,” he manages, and she holds him at arm's length, looking at him warmer and kinder than ever he thought possible.

“Thank you,” she tells him earnestly, “for everything.”

“Oh, uh, I haven't... I don't think I've actually done all that much...” he blabbers, flustered, but clamps shut when she squeezes his shoulder.

“ Master Baggins ,” she says clearly, plainly, “I know of all your accomplishments. I know that it was your bravery that brought them all here. If it weren't for you, they'd still be stuck and rotting somewhere halfway through the Misty Mountains. If it weren't for you, they'd be...”

A great pain twists her features then, and she looks away, containing it impressively fast and continuing before Bilbo can so much as peep: “I owe you a great debt, one I can never repay, so please, accept my gratitude at the very least.”

Bilbo stares at her silently for a moment, a tad flummoxed, but she is smiling  again , warm and true.

“Y-you're welcome, I suppose,” he sighs, “though I barely did anything, I assure you, I was mostly just dragged along and couldn't do anything about it...”

“And we're all luckier for it, Master hobbit,” she laughs, and he waves his hand fussily.

“Oh, do stop it. And if you want me to call you by your first name, kindly extend the courtesy to me as well.  A ll that 'Master hobbit' nonsense is getting a bit grating, if we're being honest with each other.”

She measures him wordlessly, incredulously, for just a moment, before laughing once more, loud and honest.

“Then it is a deal.”

 

In the following days, it so happens that Bilbo finds great pleasure in the Queen's company – she appoints him as her guide of sorts, and he is more than happy to perform all sorts of little tasks she asks him to do, from delivering a message here and there, to offering a piece of advice, anything that prevents him from sitting around and twiddling his thumbs, feeling helpless and bored.

She seems adamant on making everything more efficient, and also appears to be the only one with any kind of sway over both the often stubborn and impulsive Dain, and her cantankerous brother – all of that combined makes her arrival feel like a rejuvenation, like exactly the kind of energy the healing kingdom has needed all this time.

Along with Balin, she shoulders many of Thorin's tasks, and though he complains incessantly, they work excellently as a duo, and it is a delight to be a part of that, even just a little bit, even just watching from the sidelines.

Though he'd never admit it to anybody, Bilbo envies her just the slightest bit, envies her for her vast and perfect knowledge of her brother, knowing exactly what makes him tick, and relent or react when needed. Envies her and admires her for supporting him so unequivocally, even if sometimes it's done by scolding him like a child.

That seems to be the case on this particular evening as well, as Bilbo trots up to Thorin's room to share the last of the day's news with him – he doesn't mean to eavesdrop, he really doesn't, but he figures interrupting the conversation would be even ruder.

“-And for all your might and power, all you can do is sit there and let it consume you? How far are you willing to let this progress, without saying a thing? Mahal's forges, Thorin, sometimes I really can't believe you! You have everything you want  _ right there, _ and you can't just up and snatch at it?!”

“It's not as simple as all that, you know that it isn't-”

“I do know. I do. But do you know what  _ is _ simple? You're running out of time. So how long will you let this go on? Until it is too late? Until he leaves, and after that, too? Spend  _ the rest of your life _ regretting not taking that chance? Is that what you want?”

Silence, a beat.

“No.”

“Then think on what I said.”

Bilbo then hears the creak of a chair,  Thorin's weary sigh and some shuffling, and his feet carry him forth before he can think about it twice – he knocks, and the dwarves inside the room are utterly silent for a second.

“Come in,” Thorin sounds strained.

He does, peeking inside and trying to look very innocuous,  _ I didn't hear anything, why would you even think that. _ Dis is standing by a chair by the bed, and Thorin sits there slumped, gazing at his own hands clasped on the sheets.

“Is something the matter?” Dis asks.

“Oh, no, I, uh... I spoke to Bofur, and I thought... I wouldn't want to interrupt anything, I'm sorry.”

“It's alright,” Thorin mumbles, still barely looking at Bilbo, something clearly troubling him, “what is it?”

“It's... well,” Bilbo glances from him to Dis, who only has a very unhelpful roll of her eyes to offer in terms of explanation, “Bofur thinks they might be able to access the lower levels of the mines, but for that the broken bellows by the vault would have to be shut off for now, and... you know what, forget it. It can wait until tomorrow, I'm sorry.”

“No,” Thorin sighs, “thank you for telling me. I'll speak to Bofur tomorrow.”

“ Right, yes, of course, you're welcome,” Bilbo blabs,  _ sensing _ the tension between him and his sister far too well, but not really sure what he should do about it, “good night, then, I suppose.”

Thorin only huffs what might be an agreement or... anything else, really, and sinks into his bed – Dis glowers for a while, before sighing in exasperation and steering Bilbo outside, shutting the door behind them resolutely.

“Is something the matter?” Bilbo asks, and she gazes at him thoughtfully for a while.

“I don't know,” she replies at last, a bit enigmatically, “do you think so?”

“I, um...”

“Come have a smoke with me,” she suggests suddenly, a bit out of the blue, “I understand you're fond of your own Westfarthing blend?”

“Oh, uh, yes, yes very much so,” Bilbo stammers, taken by surprise by that very sudden change of topic.

“Hmm, we used to smoke that in the Blue Mountains, too,” Dis offers conversationally, leading the way away from Thorin's room  and in the direction of her own , “but then we started growing our own, and I dare say it's quite good. But everyone knows hobbits are the real experts when it comes to pipeweed, so I invite you to try it and offer your opinion.”

“Very generous of you,” Bilbo chuckles, “dwarven tobacco has been a nasty surprise in the past, and  more than once, but I'm nothing if not inclined to try new things.”

“A man after my own heart,” Lady Dis laughs, and they both know she's jesting, but Bilbo still manages to blush quite profoundly.

He's never been  _ inside _ her quarters before, but she doesn't seem as worried about it as he is – simply leaves him standing there while she goes about procuring whatever it is that she wants.  Much like many other rooms  in the mountain , this one has barely been dusted off, and only cleaned enough so that it's somewhat suitable for living, but already Bilbo can see it's different from all the rest – live crystals grow from its very walls, dozens more displayed in cases and shelves, and the furbishing is rich, though obviously tried by time, the carpets and fabrics losing some of their color, the stone unpolished.

“This used to be my grandmother's private chamber,” Lady Dis explains, rummaging behind yet another door, almost cracked in half, “back in her time, it wasn't customary for a Queen to revel in seclusion, but she demanded it. She was a jeweler, and this is where she created her pieces.”

She sounds proud, and Bilbo doesn't blame her – only feels that pang that comes every time he realizes just how much he doesn't know about Thorin's family, their background, how  _ incomprehensible _ it really is that they were here almost  _ two centuries _ ago.

“I used to come here as a little girl, I think,” Lady Dis reappears, a heavy embroidered pouch in one hand, a bottle of some foreign drink in the other, “I don't remember much, but she would sit me on the bed over there when no one else had the time to look over me, and mumble some fairy tales to me while bent over the table over there, until I fell asleep.”

She talks about it all so casually, as if remembering one such story from so long ago, her fingers unlacing her pouch slowly, and Bilbo doesn't feel privy to this moment, this personal knowledge, really.

“Did she...?”

“Died shortly before the dragon came,” she answers plainly, then glances at him curiously, “surely you've heard of my grandfather's sickness, you must have – you saw it with your own eyes.”

Bilbo gulps.

“I – I have.”

“Her death... didn't improve his state,” she says calmly, and Bilbo doesn't really know whether he should say something, offer some words of comfort or compassion – but she doesn't seem to require that. Seems far more engrossed with the simple task of taking her pipe out of the pouch, a slender, intricately carved thing with a square bowl, and only when she quirks one  impressive eyebrow at him does he realize that it's his cue to get his own pipe.

She stuffs them both with lazy precision, and lights them, a companionable silence during that simple yet reassuring task. She chuckles a bit when he first draws on the taste of the pipeweed and  squeaks a surprised yelp, but it is not before both their pipes are safely lit and they're puffing on them almost in unison that she asks: “How was it?”

“How was... what?”

“The sickness. When it claimed Thorin.”

Bilbo chokes on smoke, and the unfamiliar spicy taste fills his nose, prickling and stinging,  but if he expected her to apologize for being blunt, or look at him with anything but clear curiosity, he's obviously miscalculated.

“It was, um... Well, it was...” he starts uncertainly, and a bit miserably, exhaling shakily when the right words simply don't come, and starting all over again, “it wasn't... pretty. It wasn't good. It was... yes, I suppose it was terror, on all of us, but none more than him. But it's  _ gone _ now.”

“Is it,” she murmurs, leaning back in her chair and drawing on her pipe, puffing the smoke out through her nose, briefly clouding herself in its silvery shimmer.

“Well, I would certainly like to think so,” Bilbo says, and it doesn't sound as determined as he'd like it to.

“So would I,” she agrees quietly, and her eyes are soft as she regards Bilbo, cocking her pipe to him with her next question, “ tell me, what are your intentions? Here, I mean? With my brother? With Erebor?”

“My  _ intentions? _ ” Bilbo guffaws, remembering far too well Balin asking him exactly the same thing such a long time ago, “my  _ intentions _ are to survive this dreadful winter not moving  _ an inch _ away from this fireplace, and... possibly smoke more of this, what on earth  _ is _ in this pipeweed?”

“Glad you like it,” she chuckles, “it's a secret ingredient, I believe. I don't even know it, I just consume.”

“ Hmm, it's delicious,” Bilbo decides, “I wonder if...”

He hasn't attempted it for so long, and just closing his eyes and concentrating on the simple task is enough to bring back memories, make him feel like he's been sitting on his porch in front of Bag End all this time – blowing out that first smoke ring is a simple joy unlike anything he's felt in ages, and he watches it flutter uncertainly for a bit, until some unknown draft captures it like a waggling boat on unsteady waters, and carries it up to the ceiling.

“Impressive,” she chuckles, and creates one of her own, somewhat smaller, but sturd y, surviving longer than Bilbo's.

They enjoy that harmless activity wordlessly for so long Bilbo has almost forgotten just how frustratingly  _ unclear _ dwarves can be sometimes in attempting to get their point across.

“Thorin will be King soon,” she tells him calmly, staring though Bilbo doesn't really feel like facing her, watching the embers of his own pipe light up instead.

“I'm aware of that, yes,” he mumbles.

“This is something he's been preparing for his whole life,” Lady Dis sighs, as if it doesn't bring her any particular joy, “ _ blood right _ and all that. He will be very busy afterward. Entirely too busy.”

“Well, that... comes with the territory, I suppose, does it not,” Bilbo speculates politely.

“Indeed it does. That, and being forced to forget about oneself for some time, in favor of all those duties.”

“Oh,” Bilbo comments, still not entirely sure what insights he should be offering right about now.  
“I worry about him, you see,” Lady Dis declares, “if he is incapable of stopping  _ now _ , listening to what he knows in his heart is what he wants, I may only wonder what it will be like after he truly accepts that crown.”

“I'm... not entirely sure I follow,” Bilbo mouths at his pipe thoughtfully, “what exactly is it that Thorin, um... wants? Or his heart does? One of those?”

She stares, utterly silently, for the longest moment, her pipe forgotten between her lips.

“You don't... You mean to tell me he hasn't...?” she asks in helpless disbelief, “you two haven't shared...?”

“...What?” Bilbo inclines his head, “shared what?”

“Oh, dear Mahal under my feet!” she half laughs, half cries in desperation, “I  _ knew _ he was obstinate, I just didn't know he was  _ that _ stupid!”

“ What is going  _ on? _ ” Bilbo matches her for desperation, “what did he do? Or didn't do? Either?”

“I can't believe this!” she is outright laughing now, “I thought you two were actually... oh,  _ by my beard.  _ Oh, I wish our mother were here. All this time...? How long since you've set out on this journey, do you think, Master hobbit?”

“I, uh... I don't... The end of Astron, I believe?” Bilbo supplies, completely lost in yet another conversation with a dwarf who refuses to explain themselves – oh, Lady Dis and Balin are exactly the same in this, aren't they.

“But that will be  _ a year  _ after the winter!” she exclaims, as if it is the most incredibly hilarious thing she's ever heard, “he's been taking  _ this long  _ to tell you?”

“Tell me  _ what?! _ ” Bilbo cries, edging on impatience now, and she recognizes it, settling down somewhat, smoothing the front of her tunic and reawakening her pipe once more, drawing on it long and deep, still chuckling to herself in the process every now and then, though.

“My apologies,” she says very solemnly, “I forget, you're not familiar with all our customs. I  _ can't believe _ no one's mentioned this to you yet... right, right,” she gets back on track,  so to speak, when she sees him glaring, somewhat irritated now, “here's what's going on. I... well, I can't actually tell you myself, but I  _ can _ ask you this – in your culture, among hobbits that is, how does one... How do you  _ know _ that you've found the one? How do you express your desire to court your intended?”

“C-courting?” Bilbo chokes on the smoke from his pipe the teensiest bit, “you're joking, right? Is that what this is about, in one way or the other?”

“ One way or the other,” she nods.

“Uh,” Bilbo manages – she stares still, unwavering and  _ unnerving, _ and he swallows uneasily – but no, surely she couldn't mean... what he thinks she might mean.

“Hobbit courting, let's see, um...” he babbles, to distract himself from the blush heating up his cheeks, “there's... well, flowers. Lots of flowers, different meanings, much like your gems have, or so the others have told me... It is customary for the lad to cook for the lass, to prove himself worthy of sustaining a household on his own, there's d-dancing, but that's not until after the two have expressed mutual... interest... that is...”

His voice refuses to cooperate entirely of its own volition under her intense, scrutinizing gaze, and his next gulp is of the dry, uncertain kind.

“I suppose it just... happens, you know,” he concedes at last, “when you find someone... agreeable, that is. There are no special... I don't know what you might call them, customs? Rituals? It's a natural thing, and if you're lucky enough to find someone you fancy so much you're willing to... well, spend the rest of your life with, then it's – it's cause for celebration, is it not. We like to celebrate, we most certainly do.”

“So do we,” she smiles softly.

“Why, um... Why are we talking about courting all of a sudden, if you don't mind me asking?” Bilbo sighs, drawing deeply from the pipe, the heady taste he still can't quite place getting into his head slowly but surely.

“I don't know,” she says, that smile still in place, “why have you stayed here,  when you could have been halfway home by now?”

Bilbo opens his mouth, but words don't come out. He feels a painful pang somewhere smack in the middle of his chest, that has nothing to do with too much unfamiliar smoke in his lungs.

“I, uh...” he starts, his throat so dry he must clear it before continuing, “do you think I should have? Gone back to the Shire?”

“It doesn't matter what I think,” she shrugs, “what is that  _ you _ wanted to do? Want, still?”

He has not called the Shire his  _ home _ in so long – he's started noticing a while ago, and wonders if someone else has, as well. He knows he must go back. Eventually. He knows his affairs must be put back in order, he knows he... he knows it's where he belongs, not here. Not really. Not a mountain, not dwarven politics, not the riches and grandeur of a kingdom reborn, not by the side of its... Not here.

And yet,  turning his back to Erebor once the winter passes and marching  toward the Shire... He can't quite say if  _ home _ will be the direction he'll  be  choos ing , or the place he'll  be  leav ing behind.

“ I don't know,” he admits, and perhaps it is true, perhaps he really doesn't – or perhaps the answer is one he must turn away from, as well.

“I've gotten my fair share of adventures,” he notes feebly, chuckling over the next sentence, even though the last time he'd used it was less than nice, “far more than any Baggins deserves. I don't – I'll cause quite an uproar when my family see me, I can grant you that. They'll call me mad for years to come, that's for sure.”

“Something tells me you'll bear that title proudly,” she grins, and he laughs earnestly.

“I might as well, it'll be the nicest thing they'll come up with, you know.”

She gazes at him long and curious,  smoke swirling around them like a silent third companion to all the words they're not saying, and Bilbo could confess, could ask the question that burns the most, could get an affirmation or a denial – he doesn't know which he dreads more. But he doesn't. Not yet. Not ever? Who knows.

“You will go back there, then,” she mumbles, and it is less of a question, and more of a cautious statement, waiting for him to agree with it.

“...I suppose I must,” he sighs at long last, and her expression remains unreadable, though he detects a hint of what might be a displeased frown, or perhaps a disappointed one.

He waves the smoke away to break that hazy spell, and to clear his dizzy mind a bit, and offers one of his brighter smiles to her, a refusal to spend any more time on that topic, as well as an acknowledgment that it will require to be brought up once again eventually; and entirely too casually, he declares: “But first, I should think I'd like to see the coronation.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever be able to resist adding Dis to the mix? THE ANSWER IS NO (yes, coronation coming next! \O/)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with shedding the light.

The knock comes well into the night, after Bilbo has eaten, washed up, and managed to start feeling pleasantly drowsy after writing a small number of letters and reading for a bit – he stands up from his desk (it's still somewhat surreal to him that he's even been equipped with one in the first place, but both Balin and Lady Dis insisted, and apparently they weren't the only ones) and hurries to answer the door.

He is confused momentarily when he finds the hallway abandoned, but then he hears the footsteps, and sees the familiar figure striding away at a fast and determined pace, despite the cane clicking in unison with each step.

“Oh... Thorin!” Bilbo calls after him, “hold on!”

The dwarf's shoulders stiffen, and he stops abruptly, though he doesn't face Bilbo just yet. A bit flabbergasted, Bilbo checks that the hallway really is empty – as if anyone witnessing this might make any more sense of it than he could – and trots up to him.

“What's the matter?” he asks, “did you need something?”

Luxurious black fur shifts as the King's shoulders slump with his sigh, and he turns to look at Bilbo at long last – _harrowed_ doesn't even begin to describe his expression.

“What's the matter?” Bilbo repeats, more intently now.

“I'm sorry I disturbed you so late, Master Baggins, I wasn't...”

“Oh, it's _Master Baggins_ again, is it?” Bilbo huffs an incredulous laugh, “come on, come back inside with me, tell me what's going on.”

He doesn't wait for Thorin to follow, but knows full well that he will – and indeed, the dwarf is the one to close the door to Bilbo's room behind them, and stand there by it a bit awkwardly, which is quite a feat to achieve for someone of his stature.

“Well?” Bilbo cocks an eyebrow, and Thorin's eyes dart around the room most uneasily, before settling on Bilbo himself at long last.

“Are these quarters to your liking?” he asks somewhat mysteriously, “I told Balin to accommodate you as best the mountain allowed, but this seems a bit small to-”

“ _Small?_ ” Bilbo chuckles, “that's not what I'd call it. I have several _rooms,_ for crying out loud! I'm perfectly comfortable here, Thorin.”

“Oh,” the dwarf sighs, as if that fact surprises him for whatever reason, “well... good.”

“But I doubt you came here to talk about my accommodations,” Bilbo nudges gently, “I can see that something's troubling you. Is it the coronation?”

The effect is instant – something of a darker kind flashes like a ghost in Thorin's eyes, and he clenches his jaw, beginning to march the span of the room, fists clenching.

“Are you worried?” Bilbo asks softly, a bit pointlessly, and Thorin stops abruptly, shooting him a look like a hunted animal, before coming to a standstill once more, looking at his own hands as if he's seeing them for the first time.

“May I-?” he points vaguely to the nearest chair.

“By all means,” Bilbo nods, and Thorin's sinking even before he finishes the sentence, slumping on it heavily.

“I _am_ worried,” he admits quietly, so quietly in fact that Bilbo has to step a little closer in order to hear him properly, “how am I to do this?”

“How are you to do... what?” Bilbo inclines his head.

“All of it,” Thorin exhales, glaring intently at his own hand, fingers picking incessantly at the old wood of the table he's sitting by, “how can I be... King? I barely deserve the title.”

“You're joking, right?” Bilbo blurts out before he can really think about it, but one glance of icy blue eyes grounds him – he drags the other chair forth, closer to Thorin, and sits down, leaning forward for his words to have more impact: “Thorin, you're... You _are_ a King. Aren't you? To your people, you've – you've always been the King.”

“A King who cannot control his own mind,” Thorin murmurs, “a King who lets his mind be clouded by treacherous promises of gold.”

“Well, that's – I mean, that is all in the past, is it not?” Bilbo offers a bit feebly, “you... what you did, that wasn't you. We who were there know that. It wasn't you, Thorin.”

“But it _was_ me, suspecting those closest to me, caring for gold more than I cared for lives... stepping back on my promises. Hurting – hurting you. That was _me._ ”

“Oh, Thorin, but it wasn't!” Bilbo exclaims, a bit too strongly, and the dwarf looks at him at long last, surprised.

“It wasn't you,” Bilbo says more calmly now, collecting his thoughts a bit, “it wasn't. It was the sickness. You'd said it yourself, it was briefly stronger than you, and took its hold over you, but it's not – it's not who _you_ are, Thorin. It's not.”

“You – you don't know who I am,” Thorin says slowly, reluctantly, as if he himself is unhappy to even use those words, “I myself don't know who I am.”

“Do I not?” Bilbo quirks an eyebrow, his heart tolling like a bell for some reason, and Thorin merely stares, a bit distant, as if he actually expects... oh, as if he actually expects Bilbo to answer his own question.

“I couldn't care less whether you're King or not,” he does attempt it, and when Thorin frowns, somehow managing _indignant_ and _menacing_ at the same time, he merely chuckles, “no, hear me out. I've spent such a long time thinking I didn't measure up – don't look at me like that – that I didn't measure up to you... All of you. You led your people on this noble quest, and you'd spent what's about two of my lifetimes laboring to even be able to set out on it, and I just... When I met you in Bag End,” he begins all over again, pulling at a different thread, because he's not quite sure himself where this is heading, “the others had all but destroyed it, so I didn't exactly adopt the best opinion of you from the very start, I'll admit as much. Oh, do _not_ look at me like that, like you were any better!”

“A fair point,” Thorin concedes, and the air gets a couple of degrees warmer with their shared smiles.

“But see, that's it,” Bilbo sighs, “opinions change. You've changed my opinion of you rather... rather successfully, I dare say. I know now that you've only ever had your kin's best interest at heart, and I know that you're, uh... well, quite possibly the most irritatingly _stubborn_ and valiant person I've ever met, that much is sure. And I know that you are _good._ You are. Even if you don't believe it yourself right now. You wouldn't be standing here right now if you hadn't been strong enough to beat whatever it was that plagued your mind.”

“I don't know if I can concede to _beating..._ it,” Thorin exhales raggedly, “it's still there, Bilbo.”

“It – it is?” Bilbo gapes.

“Yes. Like a lurking beast just biding its time,” the dwarf confesses quietly, choosing each word with pained precision, as if describing whatever is happening to him in proper terms is the most important thing to him right now, “I worry... I worry that if I stop, it will catch up with me, and I will not be strong enough to defeat it again.”

“You speak as if you'll be fighting all on your own,” Bilbo notes softly, and Thorin's face creases with such genuine confusion, an almost childlike lack of understanding, that it brings a smile to Bilbo's face.

“ _If_ it comes,” he says firmly, leaning forward to give his words more meaning, “it will not have been a complete surprise like the last time. It will not catch us unprepared, and we will be able to _help you._ You need only let us.”

Thorin stares at him wide-eyed, lips moving ever so imperceptibly, as if he's memorizing those words.

“How could you help me?” he asks, more astonished than offended, curious rather than dismissive, “how could anyone? It is not a foe to slay, or a treaty to negotiate. It is not _tangible._ ”

“Yes, well, I don't know,” Bilbo sighs, exasperated, “but you know what, my Mum always used to say, if you don't know what to do with them anymore, wrap them in a blanket and feed them good, solid broth, and let me tell you, it'll be the first thing I'll be trying, so best be prepared.”

The dwarf continues simply staring for a while longer, his face a perfect image of some disbelief, some confusion still, until he bursts into laughter that, Bilbo thinks, surprises them both equally. Personally, Bilbo thinks it's the most delightful sound he's heard in a while, and his own face splits in a grin as he watches Thorin laugh at this silly thing, all but throwing his head back, the gleam blazing in his eyes and the joyful crinkles around them a truly heart-stopping sight to behold.

“Your mother sounds like a wise woman,” the King manages at last, still chuckling to himself.

“Indeed she was,” Bilbo agrees, leaning back in his chair and sighing with some relief, “do you know another thing she claimed was a remedy for everything? A good smoke. In that at least I've been doing her proud, I think.”

“In more than that, surely,” Thorin says kindly, and it is fortunate that Bilbo has already stood up and turned away to fetch them the aforementioned tobacco cure-all, and thus the dwarf can't see his rapidly flushed cheeks.

“If you say so,” he mutters, rummaging through his belongings for his handy bag of pipeweed, “I don't think she'd be too thrilled about me running out my door to pursue a journey with a dragon waiting at the end, you know.”

“Some would call that bravery,” Thorin counters, that soft, almost indulgent tone still present.

“Yes, well, she would probably call it _recklessness, Bilbo Baggins, utter recklessness, come here so I can whack you over the head with my dishcloth._ ”

“Would she do that a lot?” the dwarf wonders among amused chuckling.

“More than you would think. Do you have your pipe with you?” Bilbo asks, mostly to distract himself, but one look at Thorin, still clad in his formal attire, as if he's just walked out of the courtroom after a long and difficult debate of some sort (which, let's face it, is probably exactly the case), answers his question successfully.

“Sharing it is,” Bilbo announces, and if the King has anything to add to that, he keeps it to himself, and simply sits by and watches mutely as Bilbo performs the familiar, and strangely calming, task of stuffing the pipe and drawing on it to wake up the pipeweed, before lighting it with much enjoyment.

“Nothing like proper Westfarthing leaf, I'm telling you,” he hums happily, the deliciously heady taste filling him seemingly to his very fingertips, and Thorin smirks and accepts the pipe from him with a grateful nod.

“If you say so,” he huffs, tasting it like he's never had it before, if only to spite Bilbo.

“Don't be picky,” he wags a finger at the dwarf, “just appreciate it for how delicious it is!”

Blue eyes, turned a very dark shade in the dim lighting of the chamber, watch him silently, a lively teasing glint to them, as Thorin slowly breathes the smoke out through his nose, and it surrounds him like a silvery haze, making him look rather magnificent in all his furs and, and fancy kingly clothing, the fireplace a rich glow from behind him, painting gold in his hair.

The next time he gets his hands on the pipe, Bilbo draws on it deep and thorough, to settle his suddenly wandering mind.

“Your sister tells me there will be something especially exciting happening tomorrow,” he does his best to derail the conversation into casual waters, “she wouldn't go into specifics, of course...”

“She couldn't even if she wanted to,” Thorin nods solemnly, and when Bilbo quirks an eyebrow, he adds, “it's true. A part of a new ruler's initiation is to shed light on his kingdom. That knowledge, the way to do that, is sacred, and reserved only for firstborn, heirs to the throne.”

“ _Shed light,_ ” Bilbo repeats, “sounds laborious.”

“It's very literal,” the tiniest smirk flickers on Thorin's lips, “you shall see. I hope you don't mind standing in the dark for considerable amounts of time.”

“Didn't I tell you this once before?” Bilbo scowls at him, “I'm a hobbit. Underground dwellings and all that? We are used to darkness, thank you very much.”

“That's good,” a flash of teeth as Thorin grins brighter.

“Is it now. So... what, we will be standing in the dark for hours, waiting for you to light every single chandelier in this place? Am I allowed to bring snacks?”

Thorin laughs once more, puffs of smoke dancing around him, and Bilbo feels the pipeweed in his head already, muddling his senses, a pleasant warm haze over all.

“Nothing quite so tedious,” the King shakes his head, “and since it is you, I'll pretend not to notice the snacks.”

“Very generous of you,” Bilbo chuckles, and Thorin smiles as well, but Bilbo can see it far too well, see that something is troubling him still.

“What's on your mind?” he asks, gently prying the pipe from his outstretched hand, hovering as if Thorin has forgotten to move it, and the dwarf looks at him at the soft brush of their fingers, frowning slightly.

“It's nothing,” he claims.

“ _Nothing_ didn't decide to come all the way here in the middle of the night,” Bilbo remarks, and Thorin pouts, not short rolling his eyes, like a tween caught lying, but collects himself quickly enough, as if he's been preparing a speech all this time.

“I don't... How shall I put this,” he starts unsteadily.

“ _Clearly_ , if at all possible,” Bilbo suggests, “you dwarves have a dreadful habit of using far too many words with far too little meaning.”

Thorin gazes at him long and pensive, before sighing, eyes darting away, looking suddenly very displeased with himself.

“My sister tells me you're planning on returning to the Shire after the winter,” he says at last, and Bilbo takes some time to simply stare, unsure where _that_ particular topic came from, all of a sudden.

“Well,” he clears his throat, passing their pipe back to Thorin, who accepts it without looking at him, “I haven't a set date or anything like that, but I can certainly speed up the process, if that would help.”

“If that would – no,” Thorin now sounds almost shocked, “no, I don't want you to – I mean to say, you're welcome to stay however long you want. Need.”

“Oh,” Bilbo gapes, a bit dumbfounded, “that's... well, that's very generous of you. Thank you.”

Thorin huffs his agreement, but there is... something in his face, something that Bilbo might call discomfort, or embarrassment, if he didn't know better.

“You know, the way I see it,” he continues when Thorin doesn't have anything to say, “I thought I would at least help Bard's people get started on farming the land, they are entirely clueless about the simplest gardening, I'm telling you, and they're going to have to learn how to, you know, plant seeds at least, if they want to survive on their own... what?”

The dwarf glares at him with an intensity that is very much unsettling now, and Bilbo can sense it again, some meaning he should for all intents and purposes understand, slipping away from him.

“For that, you would stay?” Thorin says quietly, almost as if the notion makes him angry for some reason, “gardening?”

“I mean... yes?” Bilbo shrugs, Thorin forgetting to hand him the pipe when he reaches for it, merely staring as he continues, “it's a – a hobbit thing, you know? We owe a debt to nature. Of sorts. Everyone thinks that nothing will ever grow in the desolation again, did you know?”

“They are probably right,” Thorin concedes unhappily.

“Nonsense!” Bilbo counters passionately, “nonsense. Do you know, sometimes a fire helps a tired field bear crops again? And some plants _require_ ash to even think about growing? The ground around the Mountain and Dale might be scorched, but it is not lifeless. Not lifeless at all.”

Thorin opens his mouth, as if to protest, but shuts it again, astonished, his eyes gleaming fiercely in the firelight. Bilbo is quickly losing his footing, and he can barely remember  _ what _ it was that they were talking about mere minutes ago. But that's conversations with dwarves for you.

“I see,” Thorin exhales and gets up, slowly, laboriously, leaving the pipe on the table nearby, “well, I am glad you are comfortable here. And I'm certain the Men of Dale will benefit from your  skills . As I said, you have a place here, at the mountain, for as long as you desire.”

“That's all very well and good, but – hold  _ on, _ Thorin!” Bilbo springs to his feet to follow the quickly retreating dwarf, intercept him before he walks out the door just like that – feebly grabbing at his arm surely can't leave the slightest impression, Bilbo is convinced, and yet, somehow, it's enough to stop him in his tracks.

“ You still haven't told me what's troubling you,” Bilbo reminds him, and Thorin scoffs, barely looking at him still, his hand already on the door handle.

“It doesn't matter now,” he mumbles, then, finally, does afford Bilbo at least a glance, and he catches an entirely unexpected amount of emotion in it, but before he can say anything, Thorin adds, more firmly now, “tomorrow, I shall accept the crown, and it will not matter anymore.”

“Then tell me  _ now, _ ” Bilbo nudges him gently, squeezing his arm ever so lightly, “while it still does.”

“ There's no point to it,” the dwarf shakes his head, turning away again.

“Oh, you  _ bullheaded _ – come on,” Bilbo prods on.

“Leave it.”

“I  _ will not! _ ”

“Bilbo-!” Thorin swivels around fiercely, almost as if to advance on him, but when Bilbo counters with crossing his arms and  _ glaring, _ he deflates, appearing, if anything, defeated.

“It's...”

“Yes? I didn't quite hear you there,” Bilbo scolds.

“You,” Thorin mutters, as if the act of it alone causes him greater pain than all of his injuries combined, “it's you.”

“M-me?” Bilbo is caught off guard, taking a largely involuntary step back, “I don't follow. What did I do now?”

“It's not what you  _ did –  _ oh, Mahal be damned,” Thorin all but throws his hands up in the air, making to march away once more, but Bilbo jumps quickly to intercept him.

“Oh, no no, you explain yourself! What is going on? How am  _ I  _ involved?”

“ Bilbo,” Thorin sighs again, but there is resignation in his voice, as well as some ache Bilbo can't quite place. At least he's not attempting to run away anymore.

“Thorin,” Bilbo murmurs, stepping closer to him now, weighing his next words carefully, but saying them with determination nevertheless, “you know you can... you know you may tell me anything.”

The King's head snaps upright, as if he's shocked to even hear that, and Bilbo nods supportively, and Thorin's face  _ melts _ – it is the same look he had in his eyes countless times before, atop that blasted Carrock all that time ago before he embraced Bilbo, in Laketown after Bilbo had vouched for him; staring at that acorn in Bilbo's palm, his mind clear for a blissful few moments... Countless times before that, and countless times after that, come to think of it. It is that look that makes Bilbo's heart beat faster, that sways his convictions, and makes him... _ doubt. _

“I always thought that... reclaiming the mountain, leading my people home,  _ shedding light _ on this kingdom,” Thorin says those words with a longing Bilbo can only distantly begin to understand,  gazing at his hands,  “that's always been... the sum of my aspirations.  All my life I've spent preparing for this.”

“And you've succeeded,” Bilbo smiles, hoping – in vain – that Thorin might look at him again, “you've done it.”

“But once I claim the crown,” the dwarf continues as if he hasn't been listening at all, “that is... all there will ever be. A King is, more than anything, a vessel. Bilbo, we believe that a ruler is like a father to every one of his subjects. I will have a role to play, and duties to perform, and no time... no  _ room _ , to attend to what  _ I _ ... want.”

“Surely it won't be all that bad,” Bilbo chuckles, “it's all about managing your time properly, one must always find some time for themselves, to relax-”

“It's not that,” Thorin interrupts him swiftly, “what I was all these years, all these decades, ceases to be. Thorin  _ Oakenshield _ will be no more. There will be the crown, and there will be my people to lead, and I will have become a bearer of tradition, as well as progress. A figure. An icon. My person will have become my kinghood. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“That sounds... awfully formal,” Bilbo attempts to find the right term, “but I still don't understand how  _ I _ come into any of this.”

“ You told me just now – you told me that you couldn't care less if I were King or not.”

“ I... did,” Bilbo admits slowly, “and I apologize if I offended you, you know, even after all this time, I'm not so good with the traditions, I'm afraid...”

“You did no such thing,” Thorin raises his hand, looking at Bilbo still, apparently, a great difficulty, “but you did make me doubt, yet again.”

“Doubt,” Bilbo repeats, and thinks,  _ you too? _

“Yes. Ever since I met you, I've been doubting,” the King continues, “you, myself, all of...  _ this. _ ”

“I'm... sorry?” Bilbo tries helplessly.

“Me too,” Thorin tells him earnestly, blue eyes focusing on him at last, piercing him, “I've wasted so much time. And like my sister likes to remind me, time isn't one of the luxuries I've reclaimed. You should go back to the Shire, Master Baggins, when time allows.”

The air feels colder somehow, all of a sudden.

“I should?” Bilbo repeats lifelessly.

“It is for the best,” Thorin nods, and he is smiling, and for some reason, that smile is the most  _ infuriating _ thing right now, “ you should be where you belong. You may stay here as long as you like, but I'm afraid it will only serve to remind me of the chances I've wasted.”

“Chances,” Bilbo parrots dumbly, still entirely lost in this – mostly one-sided – conversation.

“I've always known it, but it took me some time to  _ really _ accept it – I may become King, but it requires sacrifice. I can't have everything I want. None of us can.”

“And what is it exactly that you want, beyond – _ oh _ . ”

It's like finishing a particularly tangled book, and finally realizing, with the very last sentences, what the  story had really been about all along.  _ So you have been sitting down for a smoke with him for a while now? Why have you stayed here, when you could have been halfway home by now? _

_ What is it that  _ you  _ wanted to do? Want, still? _

_ Would you be willing to stay? _

“Thorin,” he says very quietly, very cautiously.

“Apologies,” the dwarf mutters, and it sounds like he's already all those things he talked about, addressing a courtroom full of loyal subjects, and not one very confused hobbit.

“You've been... I mean...” Bilbo starts, then starts again, his throat very dry, “I didn't know. You never  _ said _ anything. You're not saying anything  _ now. _ I assumed I was alone in – nevermind all that.  _ Why _ must you always speak in riddles? Don't you think this could have been resolved so much earlier if you just  _ told me _ what you really wanted?”

Thorin barely manages to look in his general direction, like an ashamed child.

“Now you answer me this, Thorin Oakenshield, while you're still that,” Bilbo says firmly, some odd determination taking over, “and answer it clearly –  _ what _ do you want, besides claiming that crown tomorrow, and everything connected with it?”

It really is like forcing the truth out of a petulant tween – Thorin refuses, glares at the ground still, and despite his own heart fluttering frantically in his chest, Bilbo is mostly infuriated, and how odd is that, really? Here, in the middle of the night, deep into the mountain and the night before the coronation, head spinning slightly still from his pipeweed, is not how he's envisioned this at all (except, perhaps, for the last part, but let's leave that be). And he  _ has _ envisioned it before, that much he must admit. Coming to Thorin, or Thorin coming to him, and coming to terms with... whatever is between them, eating away at both of them equally, it would seem.

“Tell me,” he presses on.

“I don't think that-”

“You will  _ tell me, _ ” Bilbo all but orders him, “if we have to stand here all night and make you late for your own coronation.”

“You – you know very well what I want-”

“ _ And yet _ I would very much like to hear  _ you _ say it.”

Thorin looks at him now as if he's offended him, and on anyone else, it would probably have the desired effect – but Bilbo has been at this for far too long, he feels. Far too long, he's had to deal with dwarves and their stubborn thick skulls, and their aggravating inability to express themselves clearly enough to-

“You.”

Bilbo thinks he might have staggered a bit, at that one simple word, but Thorin doesn't give him enough time to catch his breath.

“You,” he repeats more intently, “for all that we've been through, for all that you've done. For your bravery, and despite the fact that I cannot possibly  do anything about it , I want... you.”

Bilbo knows he should be laboring to catch his breath  _ now _ , but as it has been many times before, this conversation is also swerving out of control, and quickly.

“ And  _ why exactly  _ can you not do anything about it?” he asks tersely.

“Your Majesty!”

“That's why,” Thorin exhales, and then they're both turning towards the advancing dwarf, the moment slipping away from their grasp quicker than they can react.

“What is it?” Thorin says, and he's every inch the King he so fears becoming, cold and towering, and making Bilbo's stomach twist and turn.

“Master Balin sent me to find you, since you didn't come to the fitting,” the servant explains hurriedly, “it's almost past time, and he told me to tell you-”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Thorin waves him off, “almost past time.”

Bilbo inhales sharply to say something more, but Thorin only acknowledges him with a short nod, and a reserved: “Thank you for your counsel. Good night.”

Bilbo stands there utterly alone and utterly befuddled, and watches him stride away as quickly as he came, his  _ kingly _ coat swishing behind him – he could run after him and tug at that fur-lined collar of his and make him stay and confess to everything, but the truth is, all that Bilbo feels right now is a very odd sort of bitterness, a foul taste lingering in his mouth.

His feet are heavy like lead as he drags himself back inside his ridiculous  _ chamber _ , shutting the door behind himself and leaning on it heavily – after that, he paces the length of the room angrily some, before getting another smoke, then attempting to fall asleep... He's too furious for any of that to really help.

But the point of the matter is – and he really should have admitted it to himself sooner – he doesn't know. Hasn't really known, ever, at any point on this ludicrous  _ adventure _ of his, anything about dwarves. Their customs, their  _ rules, _ their habits. What has he been thinking, really, staying here for so long? The Company might be his friends, but  he's not really... Has never really been one of them. Never will be.

He realizes he hasn't even told Thorin –  _ I want you as well. _ Perhaps it wouldn't even matter –  _ certainly _ , it wouldn't. There is such an unbridgeable distance between them, despite, in Thorin's words, what they've been through together, and Bilbo really sees it that morning, after a night spent tossing and turning – he gets to stand in between Balin and Bofur, closest to the throne, solitary on its pedestal emerging from the utter darkness below, and he gets to watch Thorin, after the light is indeed shed (most of the dwarves consider it a miracle, all the lights in the vast throne room coming alight at once, and Balin will try to explain it to Bilbo later, but he will not listen very closely), sit where he's supposed to sit, pale and clad in surprisingly demure attire, accepting his crown and staring straight ahead. He's never looked less like the dwarf Bilbo has known all this time, never farther away.

He's known dwarves to give up too soon, and stubbornly refuse to change their minds, but also fight for what they believe in, and be brave in the face of greatest adversities, and loyal to a fault. Once he had been more than prepared to do anything in his power to help them. Once, he'd thought he  _ could, _ that it mattered what he did and said, that he was more than just a passing shadow. 

Once, he'd thought it would be so easy as to let things play ou t their course – that  _ maybe _ , perhaps, one day, Thorin and him would naturally come to their senses.

Once he'd thought he might stay here, and that that would actually  _ mean _ something.

Around him, seemingly the entire mountain erupts in cheers as Thorin sits on his throne at long last, and Bilbo thinks that if he were to vanish right now, ring or no ring, hardly anyone would notice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God this chapter. This incredibly frustrating chapter. Thorin barging in on Bilbo in the beginning felt very Pride and Prejudice-y, with Mr Darcy being all awkward and coming to tell Lizzy that he is tokidoki for her and just like, talking about the weather all that time. God, what dumbasses :'D


End file.
